tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860Wed, 16 Nov 2016 14:25:08 +0000PoliticsanimalsA Sideshow JourneyThis is author Liesa Swejkoski's official blog.http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/noreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)Blogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860.post-8176700433947699042Tue, 12 Jul 2016 17:37:00 +00002016-07-12T13:37:53.762-04:00All Lives Matter<div class="MsoNormal">I feel so full of the Holy Spirit today since reading my scriptures this morning. Specifically I studied Alma Chapter 26 which is in the Book of Mormon. (For those of you unfamiliar with the <i>Book of Mormon</i>, it is not an addition to the Bible. It is the record of a portion of some Native American tribes who were looking forward to the coming of the Great Spirit. From the ancient oral and written traditions of their ancestors, they knew that one day a Savior, the son of God, would come to our world to tell all people about forgiveness, repentance and love.)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The words in Alma Chapter 26 are truly inspired for our day!&nbsp; Whenever I came across the word “Lamanite,” I mentally inserted the words “ISIS” or “Al-Qaida”. Lamanites were a bloodthirsty, violent group in the Book of Mormon. Just as ISIS beheads Christian men, kidnaps innocent girls and crucifies Christian children in the streets, some of the Lamanites tossed families of the believers into smoldering pits to their deaths. Then, as now, it was the traditions and incorrect teachings of their leaders that made them feel justified in doing these acts. They did not have a written record as did their brothers. As recently as a few hundred years ago, some Native Americans (such as the Cherokee) had a written record. Other tribes only had oral traditions. The written word does not change, but oral histories, like a phrase in the telephone game, can change.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Because not everyone has the motivation to love their brothers, we must spread the Gospel of Jesus Christ! It is as important overseas at it is here! It is difficult, I know, just as it was in the days of Ammon in the <i>Book of Mormon</i>. We may face scorn just as he did, or even ridicule, by merely just suggesting that we pray for these perpetrators, let alone offer them the fruits of the Gospel of Jesus.&nbsp; Deep down, this is what missionary work is all about. It is not to teach those that are already faithful, but to bring about change; to turn the hearts of all people to do good. Jesus said that if we love Him we must feed His sheep. (John 21:15-17)&nbsp;&nbsp;Jesus also said, “A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another.” (John 13:34) The Gospel is good news!&nbsp; It will change the hearts of all people, because all lives matter. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Alma Chapter 26: <a href="https://www.lds.org/scriptures/bofm/alma/26?lang=eng">https://www.lds.org/scriptures/bofm/alma/26?lang=eng</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; (Specifically verses 23 – 35.)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">To teach your young Sunday School students, diversity and love on the most basic level, please consider purchasing a copy of Liesa Swejkoski’s book “As I Have Loved You,” from Schuler books <a href="http://www.schulerbooks.com/chapbook-press/i-have-loved-you-liesa-swejkoski">http://www.schulerbooks.com/chapbook-press/i-have-loved-you-liesa-swejkoski</a><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;or via Kindle&nbsp; https://www.amazon.com/As-I-Have-Loved-You-ebook/dp/B00KMKZQGG&nbsp; .&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/2016/07/all-lives-matter.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860.post-7949034184282472450Sun, 26 Jun 2016 22:23:00 +00002016-07-02T23:34:01.753-04:00Independence Day<div class="MsoNormal">Independence Day is fast approaching. It is the time that we celebrate the declaration that the colonies would no longer be subject to the tyranny and rule of Great Britain. Many people are still under the impression that after that great statement was signed, in July 1776, there were no more battles, but that is not true. There were wars, skirmishes and burnings long before that day (and long after).<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Too many people believe that history is boring. Not enough is done to teach this subject in our schools. Thankfully, there are some great dramatizations of history in a few select films. Every year, to commemorate Independence Day, I watch several motion pictures, in sequence (listed below). It helps me to remember that my freedom was well fought for and that America must always remain free for all people. The United States is a work in progress. &nbsp;We have made mistakes and we’ve learned from them. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I hope that many of my audience will strive to learn more on their own than what is portrayed on screen. I would encourage my American readers to search the names of their ancestors and the places those individuals settled and lived in.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The dream of an independent, free society began thousands of years ago when great thinkers in Greece expounded the idea that all men should be free and not divided into the aristocracy and their slaves. Aristotle taught that if all men <i>are</i> men, then all are free and none are slaves. Hundreds of years ago in places like Germany, Ireland and Scotland, the countryside was blossoming with people who wanted to exist without the threat of kings and noblemen who would rob them of their flocks and fields, sons conscripted for armies and daughters taken by force. The New World was a land full of bounty, independence and fertile soil. It was a place of opportunity, a territory “battle born” even before the settlers arrived. Tribes killed one another for plentiful hunting grounds, fishing rights and a place to plant corn, beans and squash.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I learned that two of my women ancestors that remained in Germany during the time of one of the films (<i>Alone Yet Not Alone,</i> which takes place in 1755) lived in Germany under a nobleman’s rule. These ancestors are from my mother’s side of the family. At the beginning of the 1700s, these women were essentially serfs in the town of Heigenbrücken and their Burgomeister would not allow them to marry, but they still fell in love and had children, one by the town shepherd. Many of their counterparts sailed to America to worship freely and marry the men or women of their choice. These immigrants were allowed to keep the yield of their crops, not hand their hard-worked for gain to government. In another blog I might tell you more about my German ancestors’ story, but for the moment I want to continue about American history.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">During the mid-1700s when the Native Americans were aligning themselves with either England or France, people were kidnapped by a variety of tribes to replenish the braves and children lost to battle, disease and famine. Parents were killed along with babies who could not make the journey to the Ohio from Pennsylvania.&nbsp; Scalps were taken as far south as North Carolina. My ancestor John Wood, who was born In Ireland about 1700, was killed and scalped along the Yadkin River. He was most likely an indentured servant.&nbsp; Some people came willingly to the New World, as North America was called then, and worked for several years until they earned their freedom. At the end of the agreed upon time, they could find a place to build a cabin and make a life for themselves.&nbsp; There were many more that were taken by force from Scotland or Ireland; young men and women, sometimes children. Long before I learned of this history I had a very vivid dream. I will describe that dream another time, but I firmly believe it was what some scientists call a “cellular memory”. It was the horrific conquering of people wanting freedom from England, while attempting to make changes in their own lands. Sadly the rebellion was quelled and my people, like many, were shipped off to a life of servitude. There they were used, abused and sometimes bred to make more servants. Oft-times it was the leader of the plantations that fathered children, many times a strong black slave or a captured “Indian” or man from Scotland or Ireland. That was the fate of many Scots-Irish at the time. My dream took place just before the journey.&nbsp; I learned the rest later.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The freed Scots and Irish began to settle and make families, establish churches and local governments. Eventually all of my father’s people made their way down the Shenandoah Valley. They farmed and married the Cherokee.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Another ancestor, Elizabeth Sibylla Scharrman Guntermann, was a child born in America of German parents: Franz Andreas Guntermann and Cornelia Keyser. &nbsp;They were contemporaries of the people who came to America who are featured in the movie <i>Alone Yet Not Alone</i>. I wonder if the Scharrmans and Guntermanns were also under threat of having their cabins burned down to the ground during the French and Indian Wars. Later, as an old woman, Elizabeth and her daughter-in-law took water to our Patriot troops during the Battles of Cowpens and King’s Mountain. (The last military campaign featured in <i>The Patriot</i> is based upon the skirmish at Cowpens.)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Many settlers soon realized that England would not leave them alone to be free citizens of their own land. They were still subjects to the King of England, so wanting to be free from the shackles of tyranny, they naturally rebelled. Several of my own ancestors served in the Revolutionary War. I am proud that my ancestors served in this great cause. We are a free country, in part, because of their bravery. Recently I had the honor to become a part of the Daughters of the American Revolution. Decades after the Revolutionary War, a few of my ancestors even fought during the Civil War.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">That is a very brief, condensed history of America and why there was a Revolution. I wanted to show readers how they could put their ancestors into the time frame of many of these historic events, just as I did. History may become more exciting to you when you realize that these people were living, breathing individuals struggling during tumultuous events.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">These are the movies that I watch, in sequence, beginning in June. None of them are family movies so you must decide if your loved ones are mature enough to watch the battle scenes and a few love scenes. &nbsp;If you have any recommendations, please let me know!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"></div><ol><li>Braveheart (R)</li><li>Rob Roy (R)</li><li>Alone Yet Not Alone (PG-13). (This one is hard to watch. Let me tell you, children are kidnapped and there is a scene where a woman is burned at the stake. Being burned alive is not a quick process.)</li><li>Last of the Mohicans (1992) (R)</li><li>The Patriot (R)</li><li>The Alamo (PG-13) (I usually watch the 2004 film, but I also enjoy the version with John Wayne.)</li><li>Gettysburg - Gods and Generals (PG-13) (usually sold together in a package.)</li><li>Glory (R)</li><li>Cold Mountain (R) (I didn’t want to see this movie until a very distant relative explained that this film is loosely based on the tales of our people in post-Civil War North Carolina. I'm glad that I saw the film, but I often wonder, were our people the families waiting for the soldiers or were they the Watchmen? Maybe they were both.)</li><li>Bury my Heart at Wounded Knee (TV-14)</li><li>Far and Away (PG-13)</li></ol><o:p></o:p><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><br /></div>http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/2016/06/independence-day.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860.post-2058166357979838991Sun, 20 Mar 2016 17:47:00 +00002016-04-16T01:47:25.574-04:00King of the Nile(The flip-side to my other post about dying with dignity)<br /><br />I have a senior friend that I absolutely adore. “Jerrold” and I get along so well that it feels like he’s become a part of my family, and that’s the way it should be with friends that you love. We take walks together a couple times a week and talk about everything from politics, weather, senior care and our respective health challenges. Despite what we’ve been told about the outcomes of our long-term wellbeing we still push ourselves to walk, read, think and do the best we can to manage our symptoms.<br /><br />Recently while we were hiking in the desert, Jerrold asked, “Other than a river in Egypt, what does denial mean to you?”<br /><br />I had to laugh. I hadn’t heard that reference to the Nile River in at least a decade. I thought for a moment and answered, “Well, in a rational-thinking person, one that has all his or her faculties, it’s to have all the data and yet still believe in something impossible. I don’t mean believing in a miracle (miracles do happen and that’s what makes them unique) but counting on something despite all the facts, like thinking you can fly off a balcony when you don’t have wings, something like that.”<br /><br />I took a few deep breaths as dull pains moved their way up my calves. We walked past a golf course and I asked, “What does denial mean to you?”<br /><br />“People keep telling me that I can’t do some things, but I do them anyway. I know my disease will get worse, but I keep walking anyway. I try to get better.” Jerrold hadn’t really answered the question, but I understood what he meant.<br /><br />After a while, I added, “People don’t always think rationally. Some, like patients that have dementia, live in their own reality. Little children have their own reality, also. To them, if they say they can fly, they jump off of a pile of dirt and give it a try. Then they fall and learn not to do it next time – but look at the Wright brothers, they kept trying to fly. They kept building a better flying machine and eventually got off the ground. If not for them we might not have airplanes. Rational thinking can save our lives but denial of reality and thinking beyond what is real makes us better individuals and more interesting, don’t you think?”<br /><br />Jerrold pondered this. We were getting closer to the pool where we planned to rest. “But I’m told that I’m in denial. I will never get better. I could just sit and wait at home to die. I think about moving to Oregon or another state that has assisted suicide.”<br /><br />“Robin Williams had the same prognosis that you have. <i>The same one</i>! He gave up too early and broke all our hearts.” I silently pondered the joy that Williams had given the world with his wit. Then I remembered the heart-ache I felt the moment I heard about his suicide. The world seemed to tip just a little off its axis and things just haven’t been the same. I pleaded, “You can’t do that, please, don’t give up. You need to keep moving and getting better day-by-day!” Of course, Jerrold knows this already and that’s why he walks until the very day that his legs will no longer carry him.<br /><br />We passed a pond at the golf course. It was being drained. I decided to throw Jerrold a life-line. “Like any river, the water in the Nile flows higher in the rainy season. Sometimes it’s lower during a drought, but it always flows. Reality is, if you’re in the middle of that river, you could drown. It’s still the same river despite the weather, yet we all face the power of that water in our own way. Faith is like an inner-tube. Are you going to swim? Are you going to hold on to that flotation device or just give into reality, let go and drown? What a rational thinking person does is hold onto that ring as long as he can, despite reality, yet he knows that he’s going to die! It’s like that with so many things. It’s a balance between reality and faith and it’s a balance between our own reality and everyone else’s reality. Just keep pressing forward and don’t give up.”<br /><br />Reaching the pool, Jerrold said, “I like the way you think.”<br /><br />Sitting there we spoke not another word and watched bathers enjoying themselves. The sounds of the lapping water were soothing. I thought about Don Quixote riding a broken down horse, battling a windmill with his lance. We all have our monsters to fight: disease, poverty, PTSD and doctors who tire of us patients asking for cures and treatments that don’t yet exist. <br /><br />Maybe denial isn’t rejecting reality. Maybe denial is giving in. We know that today’s truth was yester-year’s miracle! Tomorrow’s reality is what we dream and hope for now. We have jets, cell-phones, computers, treatments for stroke, life-saving operations and transplants that were just someone’s impossible dream mere decades ago. <br /><br />My friend caught his breath, stood up and was ready to head back to his home.<br /><br />“Jerrold,” I said, “you can be the King of Denial. You keep dreaming and, who knows, you might outlive all of us.” <br /><br />http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/2016/03/king-of-nile.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860.post-281048128691853012Wed, 03 Feb 2016 00:27:00 +00002016-06-26T18:28:07.929-04:00Getting Nowhere FastMy father and mother raised me to be a lady. I’m not saying this in the modern sense of the word. I mean, someone delicate in thought and deed; one who knows the finer arts of painting, music and writing. They took me to museums and shelved all the best books in our home. This put me in an awkward position since I grew up in Taylor, Michigan. Even the locals said that there was more culture in one cup of yogurt than all of Taylor. (Note, I didn’t say it. I was told this from people at school and neighbors as well.)<br /><br /><br />In 1968 Papa moved us south of Detroit to Taylor, a community situated in the Downriver part of Michigan. The fixer-upper house, situated on over an acre, was close to I-75 so my father could get to work quickly at General Motors’ Fisher Body-Fleetwood factory in Detroit. <br /><br /><br />Taylor, known as a bed-room community, was home to working class families. Parents relied on the factories to pay good wages and provide the means to put meat on the table. There was little time for art, travel, classic music or exotic food for most people. The most exciting part of the move for me was that huge yard. Living on over an acre meant that someday I could get a horse!<br /><br /><br />My mother always dreamed that I would one day marry a very rich man. Her own father was an artist; and a reluctant soldier. My grandmother wanted my dad to become a preacher. He joined the Navy. The early twentieth century was one of strife, war, depression and turmoil. It changed lives and destinies as battles, famine and epidemics have done throughout the ages. So once the world was relatively peaceful, post Korean War to be exact, my parents set their visions and hopes on me. It was a tall order.<br /><br /><br />I was a tom-boy kind of girl. We didn’t go to church. My parents didn’t believe in things like that. My father rebelled against his mother’s stern upbringing as did all of her offspring. So from the time school let out in June until after Labor Day, I ran around with no shoes. That’s right: three months of freedom for my toes! Every year I developed such hard calluses, that I’d walk over the sharp rocks in our driveway and barely notice the stones by July. When September rolled around, my dad would struggle to put my shoes back on. I hated the scratchy feeling of the socks and the constricting tightness of my footwear. This meant that my dad was always buying new shoes for me. Back then they were fitted to my feet. Everyone went to the shoe stores in those days, getting their feet measured. That didn’t help my situation. I despised shoes with a passion and if not for the cold Michigan winters, by choice, I would have gone barefoot all year ‘round. <br /><br /><br />Additionally, summers meant swimming. If I couldn’t get to the pool, I’d run the hose, get a lot of mud started and roll in the muck like a little piggy. My mother bought me some lovely purple culottes that I didn’t like. So after being forced to wear them a couple times, in desperation (or spite) I went outside and spent the next couple of hours cooling off in my mud-hole. Mommie was furious! She demanded to know why I didn’t wear my play clothes. She never did get the stains out of those culottes. I actually felt bad for her, but I was relieved. Eventually she dressed me like the other kids in my neighborhood: jeans and t-shirts. My cousin Greg handed me down a lot of his jeans and I was grateful. (He was always like my big brother, but that’s another story.)<br /><br /><br />My mother made sure I learned music. My piano teachers usually quit after a few lessons. One high school student, starved for cash, stuck it out. I learned a lot from the young man, but treated him pretty bad. My parents encouraged art and liked that I was taking some classes in junior high school. Eventually, I started paying attention in all my English classes, enjoying the study of words and grammar. Due to some mild dyslexia, spelling has always been a challenge, but my mother introduced me to the dictionary. My sister Margie actually made me crack open a text book and showed me what a noun was so that by the time Schoolhouse Rock debuted on ABC TV I was enthralled with the first song! “A noun is a person, place or thing!” blared from the television set in our living room. <br /><br />Eventually, my dad bought me the horse that he promised and soon I began riding lessons. Nothing was too good for his baby girl. He wanted me cultured, educated and refined. (In reality I was smelly, sweaty and sporting snarled hair every evening.)<br /><br /><br />Years later, I went to John F. Kennedy High School. I wasn’t the best student but I rose to the challenge. Also, I left my tom-boy ways behind, looking forward to the day I could go to a university, which I did eventually. My parents were thrilled that I’d decided to break away from my life Downriver. They were working class just like everyone else, but wanted me to experience more and have a better life than they did.<br /><br /><br />Half way through college I met the love of my life, David. He is a mechanic, not the rich businessman my parents had hoped I’d marry. Family friends in Detroit insisted I should marry for money first and learn to love a man. I didn’t see it that way. I wanted to wed for love. <br /><br /><br />David and I began our married life in my hometown, Taylor. I tried teaching, day care, working as a bank teller, working at a museum and later writing. I even did a stint as a lunch lady and at the time, it was my highest paying job! There was no money in music, art nor writing. Believe me, I tried. I’d still like to be a sculptor. I’d even like to try singing lessons, but I’m not delusional. There is no money in any of those avocations-- unless I’m one of the lucky ones. Our bread and butter come from my husband’s hard work.<br /><br /><br />Which brings us to this decade. My son-in-law majored in theater. I was so proud of him when he graduated from my alma mater, Brigham Young University! Sadly, finding a job is another matter. The arts just aren’t appreciated and an artist is not loved in his own time, if at all. I know that John will go on to do great things in his life, but theater is a hobby, not a career unless you are willing to move to New York and schlep your tired body to every audition after working two jobs and paying high rent for a gawd-awful, rat infested apartment. But that young man has talent! He did a killer Ichabod Crane in a college production of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. He can do stunts and the splits. If there is ever a life story produced of Buster Keaton, he’s the man for the job. He is the right height, coloring and. . . who am I kidding? Even Buster Keaton, genius that he was, is not appreciated. I think we’re getting nowhere fast --but it’s a fun ride!<br /><br /><br />John in his role as Ichabod Crane.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tqpqJXBQXbQ/VrFCmGQiT9I/AAAAAAAAAe8/Kg8BEv_bPI4/s1600/1jd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tqpqJXBQXbQ/VrFCmGQiT9I/AAAAAAAAAe8/Kg8BEv_bPI4/s400/1jd.jpg" /></a></div>http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/2016/02/getting-nowhere-fast.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860.post-1344901842219606911Mon, 18 Jan 2016 06:11:00 +00002016-01-25T21:19:46.177-05:00My ConfessionLet me begin this post by stating that this is not intended to be a spring-board for people who have a gripe against my religion. If they want to jump into a discussion somewhere else, good for them. I just don’t want this blog entry to be a catalyst for it. This is merely my personal trial, a situation so difficult that I’m not even sure Abby and Ann could help.<br /><br />Here’s a little history:<br /><br />I seem to be a magnet for accidents and catastrophes. I’ve had a history of splitting my head open, landing noggin first into a tree from my horse, diving off a sod-hill onto my neck resulting in snapping my collar bone. . .and that’s only the surface of the iceberg. My first car accident happened when I was only three years old, before mandatory car-seats for toddlers. I was jumping up and down in the backseat when the car my family was in got struck from behind in a low-speed fender bender. <br /><br /><br />In my grade-school years, I liked to plunge into everything, reckless and energetic like most kids. I rode hard, played hard, swam with fury and ran everywhere, usually in bare feet, all summer. Autumn-time, I’d bound through piles of red and gold leaves, rake them up and start all over again. . .and again. In the winter I’d scramble through the snow until dusk, reluctantly going home, red-faced, half frozen and exhausted.<br /><br />As a teen, I’d go hiking or camping. Sometimes I’d be tick-bit.<br /><br />In young married life, I had huge babies (nine and ten pounders) and postpartum depression bordering on psychosis. My body was overwhelmed. I didn’t have the opportunity to heal properly and still had to tend to my babies. At the time, my husband was going to tech school, also working full time, and my parents had retired to the sunny southwest.<br /><br />Over the decades I’ve been in about a half dozen car accidents. Thankfully I was never the cause of those accidents. One was a multi-vehicular wreck in January of 1998. At a two way stop a man dialing his clunky cell phone ran into a large Chevrolet Suburban creating a domino effect. I had the good sense not to “ride” the bumper of the car in front of me, so when I was struck by the Suburban, I didn’t hit the vehicle in front, and she didn’t run into the auto in front of her.<br /><br />Witnesses setting up a sign at the corner saw my head shatter the back window of the single cab pickup truck that I was operating. I thought my skull had been struck by a baseball bat. I remember the next moment going forward, full force. My safety belt caught me preventing my body from being flung through the windshield. One broken window was enough for one day. <br /><br />Weeks later I still had an ‘L’ shaped burn mark across my chest and belly! My neck and back were bent but not broken. I was numb at first, sore later, in pain after that. For many weeks, I couldn’t remember my children’s names. I couldn’t lift my kids up. Instead I had to sit down and gather the youngsters into my arms. <br /><br />Additionally, doctors said my brain had bounced back and forth like a bug in a jar the moment of the collision. I had to teach myself how to do division and math all over again. For a couple months I’d lost my grip on words. I had to learn how to spell some things over again, relearn the meaning of other terms. A simple thing like “hyena” had me stymied. “Stymie” had me stymied!<br /><br />As a result of my jaws snapping together in the impact, occasionally shards and splinters of broken mandible would work their way to just above my teeth, protrude through my upper gums and descend between my cheeks, into my mouth. I lived with that for nearly two years after the collision. To this day I live with sensitive molars that disintegrate sometimes.<br /><br />I won’t even go into the legal mess here, but a therapist had to work with me a couple years later to try to get me to not be so hyper-vigilant. Every time I was stopped in traffic, I thought I’d get bashed from behind. He had his work cut out for him; trying to convince me that it was unlikely that I’d be involved in a similar accident. I had a hard time believing him at first because a year after the multi-vehicular collision, a driver behind me kept going even though I’d stopped for traffic, bumping my fender. Another time, I was at a stop sign, when a woman ran into my automobile. If I hadn’t been stopped, she would have gone right into the cross traffic. She explained that she'd turned around to talk to her three-year-old and didn’t realize there was a stop sign. After all that, my psychotherapist tried to convince me that it was unlikely I’d get killed in a similar accident. <br /><br />He was right. It’s been decades since my last vehicular collision, but if you look several posts down, you’ll read about my train wreck. My PTSD is so enormous it should have its very own zip code.<br /><br />I still live with body aches every day and many I can tune out – except one. Since the train collision, I have a nerve in a place next to my spine, a part of my back that I cannot easily reach. Several times a day that nerve will go into an itching, fluttering, burning electrical frenzy. I try to ignore it, but just before I fall asleep, or while sitting down to watch a movie, or in church, the little lightning storm starts up again. If I don’t have a back scratcher close by, I do my little dance to try to reach the spot. I am just grateful there is no pain associated with that particular nerve.<br /><br />Decades ago, I used to sleep soundly. Nothing would disturb or rouse me. Now, many times I awake in fear. Just three short weeks before the train accident, I’d had major surgery, a hysterectomy and a tummy tuck. (It was less a vanity issue and more of what to do with all that extra hide from carrying enormous babies. The doctor suggested the procedure and I gratefully accepted.) The skin over my belly was still raw. I think sitting in the Nevada desert, watching the train that my family had just been on go up in flames, burn and melt, imbedded a fear into my abdominal cells. Their receptors seem to be highly sensitive to adrenalin. I say this because when I have that fleeting terror that casts me out of my elusive slumber, I feel like I am at the top of a roller coaster, just beginning my descent. Maybe it’s a descent into madness. Only time will tell.<br /><br />I'm narrating this not to gain sympathy but to set the scene for my present situation.<br /><br />My problem today is that I am too fearful to sleep at night. Consequently I am so tired after a night of trying to escape my dreams that I’m too exhausted to get out of bed. Some family members also have issues and if they are visiting and we argue, it can take hours, sometimes days for me to settle down to some sort of normalcy. Many mornings I awake to music in my head. (The thrumming and drumming have been there most of the night, I know, because I wake up to it sometimes hours before my alarm blares.) I listen to Christian music or the golden-oldies during the day, then relaxation music just before I go to sleep, but sure enough the inner-march is there again with the sunrise. If it’s a day that I don’t have to go to work, I roll back over and cry, trying to catch a few more winks, but the song remains. <br /><br />One evening, after an especially horrific argument, my skull was throbbing. No pain thankfully, but I thought I was going to have an aneurism. My cousin, who is not an active member of the “Mormons” as she calls the Church, has excruciating headaches when the barometric pressure drops, just before severe weather sets in. The spells are so bad, she cannot think or see. No matter what her family doctor recommends, it doesn’t work, so she takes a few sips of wine cooler and can sleep soundly. She and I have similar issues with thick blood and dehydration issues. I was given some pain pills about ten years ago and the darned things made me stop breathing. Some other ones designed to stop my heart from racing lowered my heart rate drastically, enough to cause me to come near to fainting. Some other anti-seizure samples that a doctor (a friend of my family) prescribed, made me loopy for three days afterwards. Reticent, I took a cue from my cousin. I was coughing anyway, so I purchased some Drambuie, my dad’s old stand-by for coughs and colds. I drank half a glass. The throbbing subsided and I slept better than I had in years! (Incidentally, the rest of my family had that cough for a whole week. I didn’t.)<br /><br />I still don’t believe in social drinking, but medicinally, once every several weeks, a drink has helped me. I didn’t go to the temple during this period, but it was soon time to renew my temple recommend. One of the requirements is the observance of the Word of Wisdom, a tenet of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Introduced in the 1830s, you could say the “W of W” was before its time. It cautioned against the use of tobacco when smoking was believed to be healthful for the lungs. Before caffeine was even identified, hot drinks such as coffee were proscribed. Hard liquor was also against church policy and specifically named in the W of W. Grains and plants in their time and season are recommended. (That verse sounds similar to the new-age thinking of grow your own or shop locally.) Yes, the Word of Wisdom was well before its time and just as much a blessing now as it was then. If you want more information, you may look it up online. It may be found in the Doctrine and Covenants, section 89.<br /><br />I‘d like to point out, the excessive use of meat is likewise cautioned against. The W of W says to eat meat sparingly, in thankfulness, because the lives of those animals that God has created are precious to Him. We are advised to consume meat in times of famine or winter when there is no harvest. Yet, many Mormons can down a steak so fast it will make your head spin. <br /><br />The faithful also eat boundless amounts of candies, cookies and baked goods. They drink gallons of sweet beverages, enough to drown a moose. When my non-Mormon niece and her boyfriend visited Utah a few years ago, they were in awe of the large families they saw everywhere, eating ice-cream or hanging out at places like “Swigs” known for its syrupy confections. I explained that with the Word of Wisdom in place the only fun for us Mormons was sex and sugar. They got a chuckle out of that.<br /><br />Recently my friend and old neighbor Devin* went back to college. His kids were grown and the down-turn in the economy led him to a place where finishing his degree was necessary. Aside from being tired, he also seemed more edgy than usual. His wife Marlow* confided that he was consuming several cans of caffeine-laden energy drinks a day! He was getting maybe three to four hours of sleep per night at this point. Here I was striving unsuccessfully for seven to eight hours of sleep and getting out of bed in the morning, feeling like a depressed slug. I was working two jobs, writing and managing several Facebook groups and pages. <br /><br />One day, caving in to my weaknesses, I got an iced coffee so I wouldn’t fall asleep at the wheel. My morning got better. In fact, I felt happy all day! The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. (No, to answer your thoughts, this is not a daily routine. I’ve only had one more since.)<br /><br />So, as I said before, it was time for me to renew my temple recommend. I confessed all to my bishop, a requirement during the interview. At that meeting, I didn’t bring up my cousin and I didn’t bring up my friend, or even the countless others that I know who are members in good standing that drink coffee (for their slow-beating heart conditions) or alcohol that doctors have prescribed them. This was between me and my bishop. I told him everything I stated here. He asked me why I just didn’t take a prescription (because we all know big pharma isn’t named in the W of W so tranquilizing is okay. Massive amounts of energy drinks are not hot drinks -- so also okay.) I told him about the pills I’d been prescribed in the past decades and how they nearly killed me. I also told him that I awake refreshed after a small occasional drink at night of Drambuie or Irish cream. The man truly is kind and concerned, but never-the-less his face got a little red. I did not get my recommend that afternoon, but instead was prescribed counselling. That did not help. We even did a little family therapy so that my troublesome family members and I could get along, but that didn’t help with the anxiety and PTSD. <br /><br />Still wanting to feel the peace that attending the temple brings, I met again with my bishop a couple months later. At that visit I told him I knew of people who have “prescriptions” from their doctors for over the counter remedies such as wine, coffee . . .and cannabis oil for their seizures. He wished me luck trying to get a doctor to write a script for me. (All but one of the doctors near my winter home in the west is Mormon.) Consequently, I am without a recommend and I still have my issues. <br /><br />I live with guilt. It’s there riding my PTSD like a cowboy rides a wild bronco, digging its heels into my psyche with cold, sharp spurs.<br /><br />There’s nobody I can talk to. If I speak to family, all but one of them gives me a shunning look of condemnation, no love, no compassion. If I talk to other members of my church, they may question their faith and I’m told questioning is dangerous for them. I’m also afraid that they may avoid me like I’m a porn star or a Democrat. Likewise it’s a reasonable concern that the value of my youngest daughter as a possible marriage partner for a good man will go down several notches. (Sorry, Honey, it’s out there now.) So until now I remained in silence – alone.<br /><br />I did talk to some homosexual friends. I only see these guys once a year, so I really do not have a consistent sounding board. They wanted to know when the Church will lift its ban on gay marriage. I contended that I felt the Word of Wisdom is a bigger issue, explaining that many more church members are having problems with new substances that were not widely used centuries ago. Some didn’t even exist when the W of W was revealed to Church membership by Joseph Smith. The world now has marijuana, high-fructose corn syrup, GMOs and energy drinks to name a few. I asked my friends if they imbibed in coffee or alcohol. They said they did, agreeing that the Word of Wisdom, despite its healthful benefits was a greater issue for a greater number of individuals. <br /><br />Despite the guilt and isolation, I will not go back to the insanity of sampling prescriptions. With my pharmaceutical history, it could be deadly. I think back to Betty* a Relief Society president from the next town over. One weekend, she made sure all the ladies under her watch were cared for. The mothers with newborns had meals set up for them for the next two weeks. Some neighborhood women whether at the hospital or home recuperating from surgery were also covered. Betty talked to her best friends, made sure their lives were going smoothly. She met with her counselors. That Sunday morning Betty was found cold and stiff, dead from prescription pills. The lady that told my group was the deceased’s best friend. She said her pal had not intentionally overdosed. There weren’t many missing capsules from the new Rx. Betty’s good heart was just so focused on the needs of others that she required something to calm her nerves. Those pills worked so well that she died in her sleep, calm. Serene. <br /><br />I think I know what Abby and Ann would do. Maybe they’d suggest I sit down for more therapy. I will try more analysis. They’d suggest that I discuss my problems further with my “ecclesiastical” leader or even recommend another church. Well, I intend to stay in my church (and I will discuss why in a future entry).<br /><br />Oh, Abby! Ann! Help!!!<br /><br />*Names have been changed.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-miV0aoxCFsU/VqbXpiE30mI/AAAAAAAAAeo/3phPWSG1g4w/s1600/1takes.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-miV0aoxCFsU/VqbXpiE30mI/AAAAAAAAAeo/3phPWSG1g4w/s320/1takes.png" /></a></div>http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/2016/01/my-confession.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860.post-6713477256491966380Fri, 23 Oct 2015 07:04:00 +00002016-01-17T16:56:16.237-05:00Thoroughly Mean-spirited Millie. Originally written months ago, this is part of the Abby and Ann Series. <br /><br />A few years back, Jacques and Vera asked me to watch their neighbor, sixty-one-year-old Millie, until she could get placed into her assisted living facility. She had been in a rehabilitation center after a mild stroke and reassured the nursing staff she had someone to care for her. Little did I know that person was me. I was to be the bridge between rehab and the old-folks’ home. <br /><br />The day that I started work was they day she arrived home. I was searing in ninety-something degree heat at the end of April, ringing Millie's doorbell, when her daughter drove up the lane. After a struggle, my new "friend" got into her home and into bed. Millie’s insurance didn’t pay for twenty-four hour nursing care. Let me tell you, she needed it. <br /><br /><br />I stayed with Millie the first night, but reminded her I had to get up bright and early for my job. She gave me a mean look, but I figured it was the meds.<br /><br /><br />That afternoon, I checked in on her. Nobody had been by and the nurse was running late. I am not trained in the medical field, yet Millie wanted me to put all her pills in their little Sunday through Saturday compartments in two huge boxes. I counted. There were twelve prescriptions. One was OxyContin, because, Millie had taken a fall during the stroke, fell down a rocky hill next to her house, slammed into a fire hydrant at the corner and then was run over by a golf cart. Her neighbor was driving the cart when he changed course to avoid running over Millie. Instead he struck her in the lower back. So the major issue wasn’t the stroke, it was her back that was messed up.<br /><br /><br />I told Millie I couldn’t manage her prescriptions. Thankfully the nurse showed up that evening just as I was leaving. The next morning, before I went to work, I checked on Millie. The pills were all sorted out. I made Millie her breakfast and went to work. She asked if I could give her a bath. I looked the situation over and realized I could never get all two-hundred plus pounds of her into the tub. She suggested I give her a sponge bath. I told her I’d never given an adult a sponge bath. No problem she insisted. Her guest bedroom was an ensuite with a shower. I looked at it and the shower had no barrier. I told her I would give it a try, but wasn’t the nurse supposed to do that? Again, she gave me a funny look and said, “That’s your job.” <br /><br /><br />I try to be kind and I’m told that I am tender-hearted, so I figured I would help her. We came to an agreement. I offered to sit with Millie while she bathed herself. That afternoon, I knocked on the door and let myself in. Millie told me where I could find a sturdy, white plastic chair for her to sit on during bathing. I put it in the shower, got her towels, wash rag, shampoo and soap ready. She requested I get the water to a comfortable temperature. I did, and then rested the shower hose onto the seat. She got her wheelchair to the shower and then I was supposed to help her into it. We struggled together and that’s when the hose swung away from the chair and gave us both a shower. She slipped (gently, for a woman of her size) to the floor. She sat there and bathed herself. As I stood outside the shower doors, she asked me questions like how long had I lived in the desert, what my children did for work and so on. This continued for a while until I asked her about her kids. She said it was none of my damn business and to stop being so nosey. I helped her towel off and luckily her daughter came by to help get her into bed.<br /><br /><br />A few days later, after another shower, Millie was leaning over me, gripping the shower rails. I’d just toweled her off. She wanted me to check the bed-sores on her bottom. Then Millie wanted me to pull her adult briefs onto her enormous body. Since she was incontinent and the shower was narrow, I had to get creative. She slipped and nearly fell on my back. After that, I told her she would have to let the nurse check on her sores and dress her. “I need help NOW and that damn nurse only checks in once a week for five damn minutes!”<br /><br /><br />Many days she would call me names and I chalked it up to loneliness or the medication. Some evenings Millie would have me take her on long walks, in the lingering heat, insisting that she was chilly. Then when she would reach the park, Millie would refuse to go home. I would call her daughter, but only got a laugh-out-loud text back. . .sometimes. . . if I was lucky. I’d remind Millie that I had a family to get home to and a job; Jacques, Vera and Sharleen were wondering why I wasn’t spending as much time with them. I hardly saw my family. I was falling asleep at work. I finally flat out refused to take her anywhere. She would get mad and yell at me. As always when I refused to help her place her pills from their bottles into their pill boxes she would curse me. I reminded her that a nurse would be by in a day or two to straighten them out. Then Millie would throw containers all across the room, scattering tablets and capsules. I’d hope and pray that there would not be a home invasion. We’d both be murdered for the OxyContin and other pills. Their street value could put a kid through college. . . or pay someone’s bail. <br /><br /><br />This went on for a couple weeks. <br /><br /><br />One evening, Millie offered to give me a tip and I declined. She insisted and her daughter handed me fifty dollars. The daughter only came by once a week and usually I was busy washing Millie or making her something to eat. I took the opportunity to ask Millie’s daughter when the big move was. (Nothing had been packed yet.) She said, “Oh, my mother is saving a ton having you come by every day.”<br /><br /><br />Millie chimed in, “Liesa is mine, I’m going to keep her!”<br /><br /><br />“You do realize I am going back to Michigan at the end of June, right?”<br /><br /><br />Millie’s daughter turned away to make a call in another room and Millie gave me dirty looks. “I want you to stay. I need you! You are a horrible person, leaving an old woman by herself all day!” At first I thought she was yelling at her thirty-nine-year-old baby girl, but then realized she was mad at me!<br /><br /><br />I’d had enough and as I was about to leave, a man showed up. He spoke to Millie and her daughter. He asked me who I was, and how I’d gotten this job. I explained that I was a friend of Jacques and Vera up the street; he knew them. I explained that I was doing this as a favor to them until his mother was put into a facility. I’d kept notes for the future nursing staff. <br /><br /><br />This man, her son I discovered, read my notes, spoke first to his sister, then Jacques and Vera who'd walked down a couple houses to Millie’s to check on the situation. He handed me a check for fifteen hundred dollars. The next week Millie was in a facility with her husband whom I never even knew existed.<br /><br /><br />I had enough money for gas to drive cross country, the ability to stay in a hotel along the way instead of sleeping in rest stops and cash left over for a couple massages. (OH! My aching back!) <br />. . .and I vowed to never be taken advantage of again.<br /><br /><br />Abby and Ann, Millie really had me convinced that I was some sort of ogre by not staying with her every night. Did I do the right thing in letting this go on for so long? Am I really uncaring of the elderly population? Should I have kept taking her outside in her wheelchair? She needed the fresh air. Why did I feel so good when handed all that money? What would you have done?<br /><br />************************************************************************************<br /><br />Names have been changed. Shared with permission, by Millie’s son. He’s a fitness coach and says, if anything, maybe this will encourage people, especially seniors, to eat healthy and lose weight. It’s more difficult for care givers to manage large patients who likewise have shorter life-spans. <br />http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/2015/10/thoroughly-mean-spirited-millie.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860.post-7355578080329242208Wed, 14 Oct 2015 00:17:00 +00002015-10-13T21:13:45.442-04:00If I Can’t Put My Own Damn Bra On, Let Me DieI hope to go out of this life like a Viking. Okay, maybe not the fighting and pillaging part, more like Brünhilde, her chest supported with a form-fitted breastplate, singing at the top of her lungs. I want to go out screaming and kicking, too, not lingering on, a burden to others. <br /><br />My parents Dave and Ann thought the same way. They were lucky and blessed in that. Ann went quickly. She wasn’t feeling well, had a considerable amount of dizziness and went to the doctor. It was discovered that a small-cell cancer had spread throughout her tiny, elf-like body. She fought the pain bravely with steroids and morphine. Toward the end, she would take a prescribed pain pill, chase it with a couple cigarettes and nod off to sleep. It was only the last week of her life that she was bed-ridden. Ann only had to be bathed two times under hospice care. There was one bed-sore in its beginning stages. One morning, her small frame could not take it anymore. Those of us gathered bedside noticed that her bottle of morphine was low. She let out one last gasp. The attending nurse, my cousin, said Mother had passed. Papa took her remaining pills and flushed them down the commode before they could be counted. Pharma or nature? Either way, Ann was gone. If she suffered at all, it wasn’t long.<br /><br />Papa had been living by himself in a sleepy little retirement area in the Southwest when he took ill. At the age of sixty-nine it was discovered that he had a blockage near his heart. During a life flight to the hospital, he nearly died. Papa decided then to see the world and toured Asia, enjoying every moment. Years later, he too succumbed to lung cancer. It was quick but not merciful.<br /><br />I remember Papa’s brother Ed used to say, “Getting old is Hell.” Uncle Ed would kick his walker out of spite. This was before the stroke. After it happened, my uncle held on for a few more years, a shadow of the man he was. After work, about three days a week, my cousin went to the care center to massage my uncle’s legs, yet Ed still got pressure sores. The first evening I went to see him, I learned that when he said, “Nurse, GO!” those words meant he needed a nurse or an aid so he could get assistance in having a bowel movement. On my visits I watched many other seniors and disabled people, lingering, crying for death. This was nothing like the AARP commercials I’d see on television, the ones with elderly couples dancing and hiking. This was HELL. <br /><br />Another beloved elderly relative died slowly over a matter of weeks, hooked to a respirator, watching family members come and go, argue over what would happen to her house, talk as if she wasn’t in the same hospital room. She saw everything happening and had a desperate look on her face. All the nourishment that went into her was liquid, pumped right through a port in her neck and into her stomach. Everything that exited her body came out of a tube. Yellow, almost orange, urine into a bag; brown sludge into another receptacle that hung bedside, sealed from the air but not from the eyes of visitors, friends and grandchildren. One day she made the motions of writing. My husband handed her a pencil and notebook. I think she wrote that she just wanted us to let go and say our goodbyes, but nobody was certain. A family member brought some of her legal papers to the hospital that week. A day or two later, she was sent home, unhooked from her tethers, dying peacefully that weekend. <br /><br />I tend to a couple, Jacques and Vera. They’re from Canada and were old friends of my family. They knew my parents Dave and Ann since before I was born. A couple times a year our family would meet up with their family at a lakeside resort outside of the Detroit Metro area. They always had some little dogs that delighted us kids. My papa would just scowl. Dogs were farm animals to him, not family. Jacques, an athletic, old meathead even then, would bench press all the kids, one at a time and then invite us all to roller skate while Papa relaxed and told stories. Jacques’ wife Vera and her in-laws would sit around the campfire with my mother Ann listening to my father’s tales. On rainy nights, they’d opt for the clubhouse. We’d go hiking, swimming, fishing and boating. <br /><br />I lost track of Jacques and Vera for about ten years. Then one day, I answered an ad to do light housekeeping and driving for an older couple. Imagine my surprise when I saw Jacques and Vera! They were “snowbirding” near my desert community where I live half the year. They’d arrive from Canada in October, cockapoos in tow, and leave at the end of April. A couple years later, Vera’s best friend from high-school, Sharleen, joined them. A widow, Sharleen lives in the casita adjoining Jacques’ winter home. <br /><br />Since I’d last seen them, Jacques and Vera were also converted to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (also known as Mormons or LDS). Sharleen, not a Mormon, was always a hell-raiser, as they say, but Vera loves her best friend none-the-less. They were like sisters. Sharleen, having no living family in Canada, opted to live in the desert Southwest year ‘round.<br /><br />Three days a week, I’d clean Vera’s home until she and Jacques left in April or May. I’d also tend to Sharleen’s casita for another several weeks, then at the end of Spring, I’d shut off all the toilets, pipes and electrical switches at the main house, head back to Michigan for several months until my return in Autumn when I’d freshen the big house. With my husband’s instructions, I turned all their water and electricity on. This became a routine until last year. Jacques and Vera didn’t show up at their usual time. Weeks went by. I didn’t hear from my elderly friends, not a letter nor a post card. My phone calls went unanswered. Sharleen, who now has dementia, was no help. She has in-home care givers, and does quite well for now. If she'd heard from Jacques and Vera, Sharleen didn't remember and didn't tell me.<br /><br />Finally I got a call one day in January just before Jacques and Vera came rolling in. Their son J. C. was driving this time. He got them settled in. A day or two later, he flew back to Canada. Turns out, Vera had a stroke in early October of 2014 and it spun their lives around. Additionally, Jacques was in a wheelchair with degenerative disc disease. That wonderful, sweet, crazy couple believed that I could assist in their bathing and toileting. Lord knows I tried, but after Vera slipped and landed on me while I was getting her out of the shower, I asked if they could get a nurse. I’d noticed that morning that Vera had sores on her buttocks. Maybe they developed during the drive south? Anyway, the Canadian government is reluctant to pay a nurse outside of their country for long-term care. (Sharleen pays for her own assistant.) Jacques and Vera begged me to keep trying. <br /><br />Getting Vera dressed is a game of “Please don’t fall while I’m pulling up your pants,” followed by, “I hope your heavy right arm doesn’t land on my head, knocking me out!” As she bends over me, her large breasts usually box my ears, leaving me with ringing in my head. Her feet are swollen, but she insists on wearing the same size five shoes that she danced in as a young woman. I want to get her some Caitlyn Jenner sized slippers for her tender tootsies to wear instead. <br /><br />Also, some of you readers may know that Mormons wear sacred garments to promote modesty. Putting a bra of any kind on Vera, even a sports bra, one that won’t eventually roll or pop-up, is impossible. Decades ago, I asked the ladies that sell garments at the store outside the temple if I could make a suggestion that bras, or at the very least, cups, could be a part of the garment tops. You would have thought that I’d asked for pink lacy negligées! I got scowls that would have made Don Rickels wither, speechless. Here I was, years later, in the early winter of 2015 wanting to march right over to Beehive Clothing and demand answers! I wanted something that would fit my buxom old friend and I wanted it now! I have heard that I’m not the only care-giver, patient, child or friend with these concerns. (What can we do but pray?)<br /><br />Transportation is another challenge to put it mildly. Thankfully, Jacques and Vera live down the street from a clinic and have a great relationship with the staff there. They ride their electric wheelchairs to their appointments. (The bills are paid, I assume, out of pocket. They don’t tell me.) The worst experience was driving Vera to the store, at her request. I only did that once. I could barely get her into my compact car from her electric scooter. Also, I had no way to transport the machine. No problem according to Vera. We could use one from the store. Once there, I couldn’t get her into the one provided. We asked for assistance but the employees at the mart cannot legally assist shoppers. Two guys named Alan and Jose who were walking through the parking lot on the way to the store heard Vera’s pleas for help and assisted her into the electric wheelchair. Bless those angels! <br /><br />Once inside the store, Vera was quickly falling asleep at the wheel. She had just taken her prescribed pills before we left her home. My dear elderly friend would nod off repeatedly, wake up, select a box of treats and ask if I’d like some. I would decline. <br /><br />“Oh, Honey, as a child you ate sweets! Let me buy you these!” and she’d grab some cheese Danishes with her good hand. <br /><br />Frequently I tried to persuade her to go to the check out, but she’d motor on, slow down, sleep five minutes, awake with a startled look on her face and then see something else, sugary, shiny or pretty in another aisle. <br /><br />After three hours I said, “You’re so tired. Let’s get you home and get you fed.” <br /><br />She’d smile and show me the hot-pockets in her basket. “I’ll heat these up when you take me home!”<br /><br />“Okay, then. Let’s go!” I’d say, smiling.<br /><br />“Not yet!” She pulled away, kids staring at her wide-eyed. You’d think ten-year-olds would have the good sense to run out of the way. They didn’t. Neither did their mother. Vera stopped the electric menace mere inches from them. I honked the horn for Vera. It made a cute little squeak. Pitiful!<br /><br />I said, “I bet Jacques wonders where we are!” She called him on her smart phone. Well, she tried to. She dozed off, I am not joking, FIVE times before she dialed all the numbers. She left a message. I wasn’t even sure she had the right number. I texted him. Jacques said that I was grown-up and needed to tell her to leave. That didn’t work. I wanted to cry.<br /><br />By now, I was sweating like a hog and it was only the end of January. Noticing that something else was dripping, I said, “Your ice cream is melting, we really should go.” It was oozing out of the carton. She relented and we went to the cashier. <br /><br />As we left the store, Vera took my hand and said, “This is the best day I’ve had since my stroke! Thank you, THANK YOU for taking me out of the house today!” We got to the handicapped parking space and I helped her from the scooter to my passenger seat which was lower. My back felt like it was going to give out. Then it happened--thank you Mr. Murphy for your dumb laws--an insect flew down my blouse. <br /><br />I reached into my cleavage to retrieve the errant creature, but then thought to myself, what if it was a killer bee? Then just as quickly, I had visions of its five hundred hive mates attacking me. Stomping my feet and crying, I unbuttoned my shirt, exposing my bra and garments to the bag boys, shoppers and homeless people on the curb. I was finally becoming unglued. All the time, Vera howled with laughter repeating that this was “The best day ever”. By now, she was having brassier issues of her own. Her sports bra that I had labored to get over her body, the one that I had pulled down past her sternum and rested upon her ribs, had noticeably rolled up and was above her breasts. She peeled in laughter some more. I saw her dentures coming loose, the fixative goo clinging to her lips. In desperation, I reached into my bra and pulled out a little, yellow beetle with black spots. Flinging it, I got into the car, sat down and buttoned my shirt. Reaching into her handbag, Vera handed me her pocket blood pressure gauge, giggling that I wasn’t being very lady-like. <br /><br />Reporting the results, (my pressure was 172 over 149 -- if that’s possible) I started to weep. “I’ve always had good blood pressure, usually 110 over 60!”<br /><br />She said, “Oh, Honey, it doesn’t work for me either.” (To be on the safe side I went to the clinic down the street after I dropped Vera off. It was 120 over 78.)<br /><br />Hours after we left, I got Vera to her home. Jacques was seething. I could see it. I’d only seen him mad one other time and that was at the resort in Michigan when the model airplane that he’d labored on since before I was born defied his commands and kept flying, hitting a delivery truck. All those decades ago he kept calm in front of us kids, and then he went behind the clubhouse letting out a stream of foul language that would make a sailor blush! <br /><br />He met us at the door, wearing the same scathing look while I explained the situation. I carried in three sacks of candy, cupcakes, éclairs and melting ice cream. To Jacques' credit, he calmly said, “Vera has impulse issues now.” (Well, thanks for telling me AFTER the shopping trip.) Their aging cockapoo Peppy was making a yellow puddle in the kitchen corner. I put everything away, cleaned up and made a hasty retreat.<br /><br />On the bright side, I will never take Vera shopping again. She won’t buy all those treats. On the bright side, I wasn’t stung by a horde of killer bees. On the bright side, my back didn’t give out and we can buy Vera bigger shoes. On the bright side, Jacques never again brought up our lovely trip to the giant-Wally-world-of-food-bargain-store.<br /><br />My husband said I needed to have a back bone and just leave. Leave? Leave her in the store? He said that I should have forcibly taken her out. She is twice my size and was driving a small but heavy vehicle. What could I do? What would Papa’s favorite columnists advise? Abby, Ann, are you listening? <br /><br />Despite trying to think positively, I was left with two major issues that still trouble me: The first, is the idea that ladies’ LDS temple garments should be made with brassieres as part of the top. They could be sold in chest and cup sizes like bras are. God, our Father, made breasts. I don’t see why we can’t accommodate them, large or small. At the very least, provide the option of padded, supportive garment tops to disabled women. My second thought is, when I die, I want it to be quick--after a game of cards like my Auntie Lynn Marie. She won everything, fairly. Nobody let her win. She walked away from the table, grasped her walker and without warning, collapsed, a grin on her face. <br /><br />I want to go out like that, conquering the world, or at least a board game. I don’t want to live a half-life, lingering, harming other peoples’ backs, spoiling their health. I’ve told my kids, “If I die suddenly, throw a party. Cheer that I went out a winner. Be happy that I wasn’t using up money that could be better spent on my grandchildren’s college educations. Be comforted that I didn’t have to suffer with bed sores, cracking lips, bruises from blood draws, tubes hanging from my body. I don’t want to live in a mortal prison." <br /><br />Sharleen says that I should let my loved ones tend to me in my old age, that I cared for my kids and that they can meet my needs when I am old and worn out. Our mutual friend Yvette says Sharleen is nuts. I say that it is my decision and despite what the Church says, I hope that I can be put to sleep if it comes to that.<br /><br />Abby and Ann what would you say? What would you do? <br /><br />Are you listening?<br /><br /><br /><br />This is part of my series “If Abby and Ann were Listening” which was originally penned for another blog months ago. I’ll be importing stories from it every couple weeks. Please note also: Jacques and Vera have a sense of humor and support my creative efforts. There are no confidences broken here as actual names have been changed. http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/2015/10/if-i-cant-put-my-own-damn-bra-on-let-me.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860.post-9127220051961360261Mon, 28 Sep 2015 21:14:00 +00002015-09-28T17:14:44.892-04:00If Abby and Ann were Listening.My late father always said, when you have a problem, don’t take it to God. Take it to Dear Abby. If she doesn’t respond, write to her sister Ann Landers. An avowed atheist, my dad didn’t read the Bible, he read the newspaper. Every morning, he faithfully studied the advice columns before work started at the Fisher Body Plant in Delray, Michigan. He retired from that division of General Motors in the late 1980s. That was more than thirty years of sage advice that Papa gathered from Abby and Ann!<br /><br />Mom was barely a Creaster. She skipped services for entire decades, favoring church social events and mother-daughter parties. Yet, Mommie had some strong convictions. She taught me to pray, believing in the power and comfort of prayer. Never-the-less, for my first seventeen years, Dad’s teachings won out.<br /><br />I eventually grew up, married and moved to the desert southwest like my dad’s sisters did. Following in their footsteps, I’m having a love-hate relationship with the desert. Like one of my aunties, I also travel between the Great Lakes and the west. I live in the desert during the school year, where I work two part time jobs: one in an office and the other tending elderly folks. Some of the senior citizens in the region are known as "snowbirds" because they move with the equinoxes, following the sun like migrating fowl. My seasonal jobs allow me to travel home to Michigan for months on end. I also get to do a few book signings along the way.<br /><br />The reason I'm starting this series of posts, entitled, "If Abby and Ann were Listening," is that blogging is a great way for people to get things off of their chests. Additionally, some individuals enjoy my crazy family dramas; a few stories make people chuckle. (I hope they're laughing with me and not at me.) Many folks tell me that I need to get these tales down in writing. Most names and actual places will be changed, since some situations are difficult for me to get through and some of the people I'll be writing about are not very nice.<br /><br />I will be telling you about the chickens and other critters on my porch. I will tell you about my crazy friends and my second job working with an older couple that comes down from Canada. I mostly want to share the Hell that my family puts me through. I have children and grandchildren. They can be a source of joy, but are frustratingly, maddeningly dependent on me. (A shrink told me not so long ago that I'm a co-dependent.) I will also tell you about my husband, a gentle man whose patience is often at a breaking point because of a few of these situations.<br /><br />Mostly I would like to write to Abby and Ann, since my life is so stressed out. I could write a letter every week for a year, which is what it would take to get these frustrations out of my my soul. I don’t want to send an endless stream of correspondence; I would come out of this looking like a stalker. Also, my dad told me that, sadly, the Friedman Sisters passed away. The last sister died in 2013. My papa has also left this world. I bet Abby and Ann were up in Heaven standing beside my mother ready to tell my late father, “See, there is an afterlife and we’ve been waiting to tell you!” So, if anyone out there wants to give me advice, you can be my Abby and Ann. If the real sisters are up there listening, please, send advice. Send it right away! I think my dad would approve.<br />http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/2015/09/if-abby-and-ann-were-listening.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860.post-8706606159377859346Wed, 16 Sep 2015 19:06:00 +00002015-09-16T19:51:14.778-04:00We are HildaleTwo large vans loaded with mothers, aunts and little children went on a drive. . .and never came home.<br /><br /><br />Monday evening September 14, in Hildale, Utah some adults rounded up the little ones to watch the flooding in their neighborhood. The mothers corralled the kids in two vans during an exceptionally heavy thunderstorm. They cautioned the children to stay away from the rushing water and asked them to remain inside the vehicles to watch the weather. They parked at a safe distance, parents standing in the rain, when in an instant, the water rushed from behind them, washing away the road. To the horror of onlookers, their vehicles were swept by the forces of water, down slopes and rocks. Their vans came to rest, twisted in the aftermath.<br /><br />It could have been you. It could have been me. It could have been my children and grandchildren. Most people who have lived in the west for a fair amount of time know not to hike in canyons and washes (also known as arroyos) during rainstorms. They know to stay out of the swimming holes even if a storm is ten or fifteen miles away. The rain gathers from high plateaus and rushes down the sides of walls, converges to the lowest and narrowest points creating a swift running river where only minutes before sand and lizards baked in the sun. <br /><br /><br />Decades ago after some storms, my children and I stayed a healthy and safe distance watching water run down dirt roads in Southern Utah. Still, we were in a neighborhood, away from canyons. Thankfully the water from the storms never gained so much momentum to sweep us away.<br /><br /><br />Sadly, the focus in the media and amongst most people is the fact that the victims were members of the FLDS community, a renegade offshoot of the mainstream Christian “Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints” (LDS). Many people poke fun at the FLDS manner of dress and isolation, joking about how many Polygamists it takes to fill a van before it stops floating. I wonder if people would say the same if this was a van of people from New York visiting from out of state. What if this had been a bus load of European tourists?<br /><br /><br />In fact, that same evening, hikers from California were swept away while traversing through Keyhole Canyon in nearby Zion National Park. As the crow flies, Zion is only fifteen miles away from little Hildale. Part way into the hike, the rain began. Within less than fifteen minutes, the Virgin River rose from fifty five cubic feet per second to over 2500 cubic feet. The hikers were hit with a wall of water which later slammed Hildale like a tidal wave. I don’t hear jokes about the California hikers. <br /><br />At press time the total number of dead in both instances is twenty. As of posting this blog entry the search continues for little Tyson Black whose deceased relatives and the mangled van he was riding in were found a half mile away. Some bodies and debris were discovered as far as six miles away.<br /><br /><br />The mayor of the little polygamist community called this an act of God. I will agree that Heavenly Father created weather, but each of us chooses what course we take in life. The mothers chose to watch the flash floods at what they judged to be a safe distance, but the waters changed course and took them off guard. God did not do this. These communities are already struggling with their faith. They do not need to be angry at their creator.<br /><br /><br />My heart and prayers are with Hildale, Utah and Colorado City, Arizona. I will stand with you. <br /><br /><br />Je Suis Hildale<br /><br /><br />(Photos #1 and #2 -- Vehicles and families minutes before the wall of water hit them, via John Barlow and Channel 13 FOX News, Utah)<br />(Photo #3 credit Saint George News.)<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-et-uVciS5uE/Vfn7NpBVtHI/AAAAAAAAAd8/kBTV4rNwKsU/s1600/0916171528_01.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-et-uVciS5uE/Vfn7NpBVtHI/AAAAAAAAAd8/kBTV4rNwKsU/s320/0916171528_01.jpg" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-COVexa-KKKs/Vfn7NkbqjYI/AAAAAAAAAd4/tYmMUF6czAw/s1600/0916171531.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-COVexa-KKKs/Vfn7NkbqjYI/AAAAAAAAAd4/tYmMUF6czAw/s320/0916171531.jpg" /></a>)<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_-K83OMuRb0/Vfm_mJ2yS3I/AAAAAAAAAdk/Z5uduhgem8s/s1600/1StgNews.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_-K83OMuRb0/Vfm_mJ2yS3I/AAAAAAAAAdk/Z5uduhgem8s/s400/1StgNews.jpg" /></a>http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/2015/09/we-are-hildale-two-large-vans-loaded.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860.post-313048726060157183Sun, 15 Mar 2015 23:25:00 +00002015-07-22T13:21:51.450-04:00Welcome to the Highway California Back in the old days, in the 1960s, there were just maps. There were no MapQuest, Google maps, Google Earth, GPS etc. You took it at face value that the Atlas you held in your hands was correct. If it showed a straight road in an unfamiliar state, you hoped and prayed it was correct. Before that, in the days of pioneers and explorers, men made their own maps. In 1805 the Lewis and Clark Expedition set out to explore a portion of North America to find a route west, hopefully one that could be traversed by water. Of course, they needed an experienced guide to show them the way and ask directions. They found that woman -- Sacagawea a Shoshone. They had no GPS, no maps, just a will to explore the unknown. <br> <br>"No GPS!" You gasp. Ah, dear young reader of mine, the common citizens did not have GPS technology at their fingertips until a decade ago. I don't even think our government did in the 1960s when the following story takes place. Even with this wonderful technology, I know of people in the desert who were led to the ends of cliffs because their GPS said the road continued. It happened to some tourists from Israel about seven years ago who were visiting the canyon lands of Arizona and Utah. Someone couldn't wait to pee, so a driver stopped one of the rental vehicles part-way through their trek in the middle of the desert. As the boy began to relieve himself he said, "We're at the edge of a cliff!" Had they gone farther in the dark, their caravan would have plummeted, taking the families to their deaths. <br> <br>Which brings me to my story. My daughter and I spent her recent spring break in Death Valley. (I hate the desert with a passion; still too blazing hot even in March.) Anyway, sometimes we got lost, or at least I thought we were because the maps my daughter and I were using weren't accurate. I'd just go a little farther and sure enough, we'd be where we hoped to go. At some point, I got to thinking about a family story. (Note to readers hoping to visit Death Valley, <b>DON'T</b>. Okay, you still want to go. <b>Take water</b>, about a gallon per person per day, and <b>if a guidebook says you can travel a dirt road and that four wheel drive is not required, you <i>still</i> need four-wheel-drive and a high clearance vehicle</b>, but I digress.) <br> <br>About 1962, before I was born, my dad drove my mom and sisters to California in his station wagon. Almost to their destination, he and my mother studied a map. My German-born mother, no Sacagawea, said, "This road looks shorter," so my dad agreed to take it because he valued her opinion. I still don't know why; he was Scots-Irish and Cherokee and had a keen sense of direction. My mother on the other hand, bless her heart, got lost in the super-market or on her way to garage sales. <br> <br> The road, possibly California State Route 130*, started out paved but then, became dirt, then rocks, then boulders. A narrow one-lane path most of the way, it was washed out in spots, and began to ascend, at first gradually. Soon it was no more than a deer-path as my dad called it, with steep drop-offs and serious grades. He had to stop several times, he was sweating so badly. Dad said his sight went all white even, for a brief few seconds. The way zigged and zagged, having several switch-backs and hair-pin turns. He feared that another car, picking up speed with the pull of gravity, might come down one of the curves as he creeped up the path. My oldest sister Jeanette recalls looking out the window, seeing how close the car was to the side of the mountain. She feared falling off the edge on the other side. Jeanette remembers that she and the three other family members in the station wagon were the only people on the road. Would anybody find them if they careened to their deaths? (Even as recently as about fifteen years ago, an elderly couple who went missing were found at the bottom of Arizona's Virgin River Gorge, months after they were last seen. They were still in their van, strapped in their seatbelts, not much more than skeletons and dried sinew.) <br> <br>The journey continued as the sun got low on the horizon, but there was no place to rest, no place to turn around. Soon, night fell. According to my sister Margie, "Not a peep was heard while we traveled on that road." Finally after tense, bone jarring hours upon hours they found a real highway and proceeded on their way. <br> <br> Several years later, George Pierrot had a guest, possibly Stan Midgley, on his show "George Pierrot Presents". The guest discussed the worst roads in the country and he said by far the most dangerous was the exact same one that my dad had driven! Mr. Pierrot commented, something like, "Wouldn't it be sad if some poor fool were to get lost on that trail, thinking it was a short-cut, not knowing what he was up against?" <br> <br>The guest replied, "There isn't anyone that stupid. The man <i>would</i> be a fool! Something like that would never happen!" Well, my dad sure felt pretty low when it happened and then again when the show was broadcast. <br> <br>So the moral of this story is, even with the best technology or a colorful map, use good judgment and common sense. My Papa had common sense. He was a well-read man. He was an experienced man who served in the Navy and <i>even he</i> was caught in a dangerous situation. Additionally, if you ever survive a similar experience, be sure to tell the story and see the humor in it as my father did, years later, because there is more to life than just survival. There is also laughter around a good campfire. Now, turn off your computer and go make history. <br> <br> <br> <br>*Note, if I can find or verify the actual route, I will update this blog.http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/2015/03/welcome-to-highway-california.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860.post-2889813296279779177Tue, 28 Oct 2014 19:24:00 +00002015-04-27T17:03:40.087-04:00Responsibility, my take on "Out of the Blue" at ArtPrizeTwenty-three years ago, just before my husband and I purchased a beautiful Rottweiler puppy from a responsible breeder, I read a book penned by an expert who worked with dogs in the military. You see, I did my research. I wanted a wonderful family dog, one that would also defend my family in our Detroit-Metro area home. My husband liked Rottweilers and my best friend raised them. The author discussed each and every breed, its origins, the original work these canines did, and modern day uses for these breeds. He didn't malign Rottweilers or even German Shepherds. The only breeds he DID NOT recommend for families were the pit breeds and Dobermans. Why? Because in the case of pits and associated canines, the meticulous breeding used to refine a killing, fighting machine. For Dobies, it was the fact that they only came into being to be used for guard duty and ONLY guard duty. He went on to explain that despite a few bad apples, most other dogs made great family pets. For instance, Rotties were used to herd cattle; German Shepherds were used to guard sheep, etc. As for aggressive dogs, many can bite. The larger the canine the more likely harm and death may occur. When you put two or more of these dogs, or any dogs, in what they perceive as THEIR territory they will suddenly go into instinct mode and form a pack mentality. <br> <br> Recently at ArtPrize in Grand Rapids, Michigan, a multi-media piece called "Out of the Blue" was put on exhibit. It was a memorial to the victims of deadly dog maulings. Just the facts were posted. There were many breeds featured. Unfortunately the pitty-lovers, screamed foul and said the memorial was putting their pit-bulls in an unfair spotlight. MANY OF THESE PEOPLE DIDN'T EVEN SEE THE EXHIBIT BEFORE COMPLAINING! About thirty more people picketed the art piece, disrespecting the fact that this was a memorial to the victims of deadly dog attacks perpetrated by several breeds. They went on to say that it's irresponsible owners that should be blamed. I agree. I see way too many irresponsible owners of all breeds. They let their dogs harass children, pets, livestock. . . lawns. <br> <br> The thing is, too many pit-bull owners are irresponsible. For instance the ones that use the breed as a street-cred symbol, much like other people use lap dogs in purses as a status icon in their life-styles. These are the kinds of individuals that continue to fight pit-bulls and breed the most aggressive canines. This has been going on for decades. These folks use their pits and mixes to defend illegal activities. That kind of irresponsible ownership and poor breeding has done nothing to improve the progeny of the breed and related dogs. Unfortunately I see way too many people arguing about pit-bulls, too many robotic responses on forums and on facebook. It isn't just pits. It’s a fact that any dog can attack out of fear or instinct. Any owner, including me, can be baffled by an escape artist (please, see my previous post “Dog-gonnit!" for more information) but a loose pit-bull is like a loaded cannon careening down the hillside. It is like a satellite falling to the earth. Its ancestors were bred to fight and hold on tight. My father was in awe of these dogs when he hunted boar with his cousin’s husband in Hawaii in the 1950s. <br> <br> Personally, I'd rather confront one little cocker-spaniel with a bad hair day than a Cane Corso or a couple of Staffordshire Terriers. Pitbull ownership is like gun ownership. Don’t leave your guns lying around for strangers and toddlers to play with. Don’t let your hounds run loose to chase horses, rip cats in half and tear out the throats of children. In a worse-case scenario, if your loving family pet wanders around, it might get picked up by someone who fights dogs and could be used horribly to experience a short, violent life. Be responsible for the sake of your dog and the community. <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s4HUYivsFr0/VE_rQwZlsgI/AAAAAAAAARU/R-AVcsYOhdo/s1600/1art.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s4HUYivsFr0/VE_rQwZlsgI/AAAAAAAAARU/R-AVcsYOhdo/s320/1art.jpg" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--jrUqnGAoBQ/VE_rTcu34XI/AAAAAAAAARc/vXp4nJ7wz0s/s1600/1.5art.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--jrUqnGAoBQ/VE_rTcu34XI/AAAAAAAAARc/vXp4nJ7wz0s/s320/1.5art.jpg" /></a>http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/2014/10/responsibility-my-take-on-out-of-blue.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860.post-8479608500926033168Sat, 06 Sep 2014 19:28:00 +00002015-06-20T17:44:27.195-04:00Detroit -- Memories and Reality<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0fbBcN5xLVo/VYXbZFSnF_I/AAAAAAAAAZQ/-LrfusWdfms/s1600/20140709_182944_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0fbBcN5xLVo/VYXbZFSnF_I/AAAAAAAAAZQ/-LrfusWdfms/s400/20140709_182944_1.jpg" /></a></div> <br> <br> (Liesa, Marie, Shilo and Greg) <br> <br> Entrepreneur and ESPN commentator Emily Gail had it right when she coined the phrase, “Say nice things about Detroit”. I recently returned to the city of my birth and was amazed by what I saw: people walking downtown, new homes and gleaming buildings! <br> <br> I’d planned to spend a weekday afternoon with my cousins enjoying the Detroit Institute of Arts. Afterwards, Greg Owen, who works for Chrysler, offered to show us around the city. I’d mainly wanted to visit Delray, where I’d been born and Palmer Woods where my grandmother had worked as a maid for the family of George W. Mason. Cousin Greg took us all around the city, from east to west, south to north and into the heart of Motown. <br> <br> What I saw surprised me. Downtown was vibrant. There were people actually walking on the streets enjoying Starbucks. Many of them were dressed in nice clothes and suits, walking to and from their jobs. The new Comerica Park Stadium was busy. The Tigers had just won a game and happy fans were streaming out of the park. This gave us the opportunity to view new condominiums, many of them built in the fashion of the old brownstone-style homes that had been restored. There were actually businesses that, to me at least, appeared to be thriving. Pedestrians were smiling and many were heading to the variety of restaurants in town. I witnessed busses on the streets driving passengers to their destinations. I hadn’t seen the city so alive and cheerful since I was a little kid. Yes, I actually do remember the late 1960s, my father lifting me onto his shoulders as I watched parades pass before my tiny, wonder-filled eyes. Then we’d watch the enormous American flag as it was unfurled down the side of the beautiful Hudson’s building, the banner’s stars and stripes causing many to blink back tears. All the while I would be eyeing the balloon vendors, hoping my daddy would buy me one of those double-filled beauties with the Mickey Mouse balloon inside of the transparent one. (Yes, I do remember it, clear as the day it happened. Ask anyone who knows me well; I remember my childhood and very few details are lost to me.) <br> <br> Then, there were the riots. There was crime. Coleman Young was elected as Detroit’s mayor and things were supposed to get better, but they didn’t. Contrast that with nearby Dearborn which was run tight-fisted and as some said, fascist style by Mayor Orville Hubbard; but you know what? Decades passed during that era with few gang problems and fewer shootings in Hubbard’s territory. My uncle Raymond Kohl was an auxiliary policeman in Dearborn and nobody questioned any city employee or peace officer. It was known for miles around, that the city of Dearborn ran a tight ship. Contrast that with Detroit in the 1970s. Raymond’s day job was driving a city bus for Detroit. His baritone, authoritative voice kept many young trouble-makers in line when they rode his bus. Not all drivers were as respected as Raymond. Even taxi drivers were beat pretty badly, some murdered, while trying to earn a living for their families. <br> <br> Meanwhile things just got worse in Motown. Every night before Halloween, affectionately called “Devil's Night” by the locals, homes and businesses would be set on fire and burned to the ground. Many of these structures were abandoned and some were not. People were fleeing Detroit by the thousands every year, taking their businesses and taxes with them. Mayor Coleman Young called this retreat “The White Flight” but residents past and present knew it had nothing to do with race. It was the fact that Detroit police were over-worked and not allowed to do their jobs. Many times the cops themselves would be shot at. It didn’t matter if they were black, white or Hispanic; the uniform made them a target. <br> <br> Once-beautiful neighborhoods were left to crumble. Incredibly sturdy well-built homes and the surrounding buildings that boasted architecture that was rivaled by few other cities were left to the crack-heads and working girls. The few families that stood their ground were threatened. Despite the fact that some individuals maintained their homes and yards, many times thugs tossed Molotov cocktails through home owners’ windows. We had friends in Delray that put out three fires in 1989. This family held out and remained steadfast until Steve died and his mother Katy was moved to a convalescent home in Allen Park. <br> <br> Detroit schools were going down in quality every year. The curriculum was hard to follow despite dedicated teachers and administrators. The few students that tried to study were subject to beatings, rapes and the menacing specter of the drug culture that surrounded most neighborhoods. Communities in the Detroit Metro Area were later hit in the solar plexus when many automobile factories and steel mills closed down or moved their operations away to other states and countries. People who were already tightening their belts had to tighten them even further and what happened in Detroit did not stay in Detroit: it rippled into the Downriver region, into the Great Lakes states and affected America, stabbing at the economy, causing wounds and tears. <br> <br> Yet, just like Nero watched Rome burn, Mayor Coleman Young and the city council, and later Kwame Kilpatrick and his cronies, bled the taxpayers of Detroit to death. Like a swarm of mosquitoes, they set their money sucking sights upon the people of Wayne County, viewing their taxes and community coffers as an endless source of cash. All the while, the city of Detroit and its people were still bleeding. A band-aid wasn’t even available when what was really needed was a tourniquet. City officials wanted more and more financial resources from the county and state. What could have been an easy fix at one time became the worst urban decay in the nation. <br> <br> Still, the good people of Detroit and the surrounding areas were not going to give up. Individuals and private businesses began to creep back in. Sadly, the old Tiger Stadium was demolished, but the Comerica Park was built. The powers behind Detroit Tigers Baseball could have very easily decided to sell the team or build in another city, but they didn’t. Urban renewal followed, and maybe even Coleman Young’s dream of a “Renaissance” began to take root. <br> <br> Later in the afternoon, my cousins and I drove to the historic old Train Depot. It‘s fenced off, but the good news is restoration’s in the works. Someday soon, trains will once again deliver passengers to Detroit. Next year’s Cubs versus Tigers game may be enjoyed after a leisurely train ride from Chicago! <br> <br> Greg drove us into Little Mexico. Businesses were thriving and people were walking around. We drove by the Packard plant. We turned down an ally. That was the only time I was truly scared. A party was in full swing. People were dancing. Children were playing. Then it all stopped as the participants eyed us warily and Greg put the car into reverse. For a moment I recalled the recent beating of Steven Utash who after running-over a small child that had darted out in front of his car, was beaten nearly to death by angry young men who lived up and down that street. You see, it’s incidents like this that make people think really hard about venturing into the heart of Detroit. Many times they will choose to spend their money somewhere else. <br> <br> We drove to Belle Isle and I was so happy to hear that this once picturesque island had been taken over by the state. Things looked beautiful again as we drove past the picnic areas and aquarium. We got out of the car and headed for the fountain. Water bubbled and sprayed out of the lions’ mouths and many tourists were taking photographs near the great, white statues. Memories flooded back to my mind, of sitting by my father as we posed beside the fountain taking similar pictures during family outings. <br> <br> Sure as clockwork, the fountain brought another thought to my brain and I had to walk to the restroom. I actually felt safe as I used the island’s facilities. They could have used a good cleaning, but they were modern and in working order. <br> <br> The tour hadn’t ended. We drove through some communities that had seen better days, maybe close to a century ago. Houses were burnt shells of the happy homes they once were. Trees grew through some structures. The few places that were still standing were boarded up. Some people milled around the porches and glared at us. I truly feared this seedy side of Detroit as anyone with common sense would. <br> <br> Greg’s car drove past Fort Wayne. It was gratifying to see that there are reenactments and tours offered there occasionally, but this neglected historic site needs some attention. This is the location where Ulysses S. Grant was a young soldier in training. As a distraction from long hours spent in the classroom, near constant drilling and lessons on strategy, the young Grant raced horses up and down the streets of Detroit. This was long before there were motor cars and his horse carried him fast and far. Grant is the only President, so far in history, to have ever lived in Detroit. In fact as of this writing, his one-time Greek Revival-style home still stands, and anywhere else in these United States, it would be considered a historic monument. <br> <br> Going back even further, although war had not been officially declared, some of the first shots of the War of 1812 were fired in July of that year, from a battlement that stood at one time very near Fort Wayne, in the vicinity called the "Sand Hill at Springwells". There is a street named Springwells that exists today, which Greg traversed despite its potholes, to locate my old hometown of Delray. Today this community’s most famous one-time citizen is retired Brain Surgeon and author, the respected and much loved Dr. Benjamin Carson. Delray was at one time a mostly Hungarian neighborhood. <br> <br> On the way, near one of the rare businesses that's still in operation, seagulls feasted upon their dead and dying comrades. It takes a lot to kill a seagull. They are affectionately known as “sky-rats” among the people I know. Their busy beaks tore through feathers to get at the stringy, tough flesh of the deceased. <br> <br> Despite roads that had long since crumbled, walled on all sides by falling abandoned bars and empty grocery stores, we managed to make our way to West End and later Bacon Street. I was amazed and delighted to see that this was one of the few places that still had occupied homes. I looked at a house and read the address. My eyes hadn’t deceived me! My Uncle Elmer’s home was still standing and obviously cared for! I wanted to stay and meet the occupants, but it was getting late and we still hadn’t had dinner, so we drove north to Indian Village. The homes there have always been cared for and as always, the lawns were neat and the streets were hugged by ancient trees, embraced by them almost like a mother’s tender touch. <br> <br> Next we headed for Palmer Woods to see the home of George Walter Mason and his wife Hazel Bisbee-Mason. More than half a century ago, my grandmother Zona worked as a maid and cook in their home. (George Mason was the head of Kelvinator Corporation when in 1936 he was approached by Charles W. Nash, founder of Nash Motors. Mr. Nash was searching for someone to take the helm of his corporation. The Nash-Kelvinator Corporation which later joined forces with Hudson Motors, became the better-known American Motors Corporation in 1954.) Hazel Bisbee-Mason was so fond of Zona that when my grandmother left the service of the Mason family, Mrs. Mason offered her anything she wanted from the home. At first Zona declined, not wanting to take what she hadn’t actually earned, but Mrs. Mason insisted. Thinking very hard, Zona asked for the wood and glass tea service (a small table), which was handed down to me, and I still have today. <br> <br> I told this story to my daughter and her third cousin Shilo who sat in the back of Greg’s vehicle. We neared the Palmer Woods home, close to a golf course, turning onto Hamilton and Fairway where the Mason home stands with its neighboring mansions. These regal homes look as if they belong to a different era, one of success and better days – and they did, but these houses also belong to the Detroit of the future. <br> <br> National chains like Wholefoods Market are moving in. Private businesses like Motor City Candleworks and investors of all kinds are putting business back into Detroit. Recently an emergency manager was appointed. This hasn’t made everyone happy, but a sick patient needs a qualified surgeon, and so far, bankruptcy attorney Kevyn Orr and his team appear to be stitching up Detroit, a city that was bleeding out but still has a lot to give and a lot to live for; a city that, like a Phoenix, is rising from the flames. <br> <br> Now we can choose to tell that patient, our city of Detroit that it will die a horrible death. On the other hand, we can be a part of the rehabilitation of our old soldier, one who is fighting to stay alive. We as Michigan citizens, past and present can think of creative ways to be a part of Detroit’s life, here and now. There is so much to see and do, places to live downtown and mass transit to get you where you need to go. Give it a try. You may also find yourself saying nice things about Detroit. <br> <br> [Please Note: I wrote the bulk of this story in July. Before I posted this, my daughter suggested I read “Detroit: An American Autopsy” by Charlie LeDuff. Afterwards, I read “Atlas Shrugged” by Ayn Rand. I did not change my post, but I am not looking at Detroit with the same “Rose-colored” glasses that I peered through back in July. I still believe in Detroit, but realistically I believe that the old-guard politics, politicians and policies that have had a strangle-hold on Detroit and most of eastern Michigan should be replaced by the common sense ideas that Dr. Benjamin Carson writes about. I would like to thank Liam Collins, Ruth Puckett and Daryl Puckett for some of the historical research that contributed to this blog entry.] ***** Photos two, three and four, courtesy of Shilo Jaynes are of Belle Isle and two homes in Palmer Woods***** Last Photo ca 1945 Mason Home -- unknown photographer <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Y2Eenl5b4gs/VYXb2ZLfPgI/AAAAAAAAAZY/0a-THnKOhpw/s1600/20140709_183017_1%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Y2Eenl5b4gs/VYXb2ZLfPgI/AAAAAAAAAZY/0a-THnKOhpw/s320/20140709_183017_1%2B%25281%2529.jpg" /></a></div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9Ua1vWMt9fc/VAtWqXV4AlI/AAAAAAAAAOY/8CH056q1Je0/s1600/shilo1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9Ua1vWMt9fc/VAtWqXV4AlI/AAAAAAAAAOY/8CH056q1Je0/s320/shilo1.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-b6J_Gy_lAls/VAtWseFntNI/AAAAAAAAAOg/KIYPmIokFVc/s1600/mason.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-b6J_Gy_lAls/VAtWseFntNI/AAAAAAAAAOg/KIYPmIokFVc/s320/mason.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AN9h--D-RcE/VAtWz_AbhaI/AAAAAAAAAOo/E9KOZjYzGsQ/s1600/153825.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AN9h--D-RcE/VAtWz_AbhaI/AAAAAAAAAOo/E9KOZjYzGsQ/s320/153825.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OWutcVKkZcM/VAtc8Z3ziTI/AAAAAAAAAPM/kWHQ_SS3CZM/s1600/mason1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OWutcVKkZcM/VAtc8Z3ziTI/AAAAAAAAAPM/kWHQ_SS3CZM/s320/mason1.jpg" /></a></div>http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/2014/09/detroit-memories-and-reality.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860.post-3097113430931527609Fri, 08 Aug 2014 19:32:00 +00002015-06-20T18:08:30.851-04:00Precious Gems, What we are, What we may BecomeMy dear, late mother Ann appreciated jewelry. She would peruse garage sales and flea markets for real precious stones, gems and fine metals such as gold and silver. Many times when I was out of school during the summer she would drag me along for my keen, young eyes. I would read the markings and engravings at the ends of clasps and inside rings. She bought broken items and tangled necklaces many times. Some evenings we’d sit around our kitchen table with my father, repairing and untangling the pieces. Frequently my mother would carry out her jewelry box and fix her own favorite items. <br> <br> My parents would smile at each other and tell stories about some of the pieces: The time my dad bought her ring or when he brought back pearls from Japan, purchased during his stint in the Navy. I learned a great deal from these evenings, not just in relation to jewelry and gemstones, but also concerning life and the individuals we meet. During these jewelry repair evenings, my dad would tell stories. I learned that there are plain-looking rocks called geodes that have precious crystals inside. If we just crack the ugly crust we can see the sparkling insides. Some people are like that. Once we break through the outer layers, there may be a shining beauty inside that we did not expect to find! Likewise, gemstones need to be tumbled continuously with a substance called grit until a beautiful, precious stone is revealed. Many of us go through our mortal existence, getting tumbled around; the grittiness of life sometimes hurting us deeply until the day that our true beauty shines forth at the end of our trials. Growing up, I felt that I wasn’t as pretty or fashionable as the other girls. My dad explained that I was a diamond in the rough. He said that when he was a young boy, his mother told him that beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes all the way to the bone. If someone is rotten inside, no matter how you try to dress it up and paint it, their foul, repulsive core remains in there. My father said that I was good inside and beautiful on the outside, too. He said all I needed was a little polishing and that would come in time. The boys couldn’t see that yet; but the right man would, someday. <br> <br> My mother was especially fond of her strands of pearls. She said there were plenty of fakes out there: glass beads and plastic that held no value past the fondness we might hold for a souvenir or the person that gave it to us. Likewise there are people who might want to make themselves look special to fool us, but inside they are fake and hollow. They just want to fool the world. They have nothing worthwhile inside themselves to offer other folks. My mother warned me even then to be wary of fraud and individuals who lie in wait to cheat. She went on to teach me about real pearls. I learned that at the center of each pearl, there is a grain of sand or some other irritant that causes the small sea animal that harbors the piece of offending matter to produce layer after layer of nacre. That minute thing becomes a pearl and is later harvested. It is considered a precious item of natural beauty. We may also have a little something that irritates us and we too can make the best out of it, creating a thing of precious splendor. We can do this by having a positive attitude in the worst of circumstances. I know when I was younger, I hadn’t yet learned this virtue. <br> <br> In the early 1980s my parents and I went to a gem and jewelry show at Detroit Michigan’s Renaissance Center. We spent the weekend shopping for unique stones and things. My parents brought something else home instead. The first day of the exposition, we spoke to a young woman from Arkansas who clearly had her hands full. She was minding her table and wares all by herself and could barely manage to keep her toddler out of trouble. The lady explained that her husband was busy back in Arkansas struggling in his new-found ambitions and political career. It was only the beginning of the weekend and the woman could barely keep up with her small business and hobby, let alone tend to a baby at the same time. People were stepping over her busy little girl, giving mean looks and nearly tripping over the child. The baby had by that time found some electrical cords and was trying her best to pull them apart. My dad picked the little imp off the floor. The baby turned to stare at him and pat his face. With the mother’s blessings, I was handed the toddler and reluctantly ended up carrying her around the show. Since I was the youngest child of the youngest child in my family, I wasn’t used to babies and I couldn’t see anything positive about this experience. The baby did not have a stroller and was heavy in my arms. She was smelly and messy, too. We were shocked and amazed that this woman would let total strangers leave with her baby, but she was overwhelmed and felt we were good people and could be trusted. (Of course we were.) The woman had so much faith in my parents that in the evening she handed us a diaper bag and we got to tend the child in our own home. That Sunday afternoon, the last day of the show, we returned the baby to her mother. For a couple months after the event the woman frequently corresponded with my family, thanking us for watching the baby. I learned that helping someone in need was more important than finding a great bargain at some vendor’s table. I discovered that to be trustworthy and to serve are crucial to one’s character. <br> <br> After that gem show, my father made a goldstone choker for me that I still have today. More importantly, I often wonder about that little family. At some point during our evenings, my mother taught me about gold. She explained that just because something looks like gold, it might not be. Back then in the seventies and even decades before then, many items were gold-plated. Later some pieces were labeled “gold-filled” which really means, “gold that is filled with some other material”. She said that inside all that shiny yellow metal was something worthless and cheap. On the other hand, many jewelry buyers think what they are buying is pure gold. They want that pure gold wedding band and a big, fat diamond engagement ring. What they really want is 18 Karat or even the slightly more durable and popular 14 Karat gold. These varieties have other metals – alloys --blended with gold to make rings, necklaces and bracelets stronger and wearable. <br> <br> This past weekend in church, our Relief Society* President, Laura, was leading a discussion on choices and accountability. We can all make choices. We become stronger individuals when we have the opportunity to choose, but all actions have consequences, both good and bad. Laura said she knew that she was not perfect, but she was trying to be as pure as she could. She encouraged us all to try our best. I raised my hand and asked her if she was trying to be like pure gold. She smiled and said that, yes, she strives to be. I explained that she should attempt to be more like 14 Karat. Life’s experiences are like the alloys that make gold stronger; otherwise we would be too soft and of no use. Some people around us might even be 18 Karat and that is good. They have just enough of life’s lessons (or alloys) to make them strong. These individuals are the purest of the pure despite the realities of existence here on Earth. I think that as we become older we have the opportunity to learn more lessons. These opportunities make us what we are. We remain precious but we also become fit for the task of serving one another, lifting our sisters and brothers up with the inner strength that comes from enduring. I just hope that when push comes to shove, we as sisters won’t be some silver-plated or gold-filled cheapened piece of costume jewelry, harboring some poisonous heavy metal inside. Those are the kind of people that will smile in your face and stab you in the back, and as the scriptures say, from such turn away (2nd Timothy 3:5 KJV Holy Bible). <br> <br> We can only do so much and be so much; striving for pureness and all the while we know that in the end Jesus will craft of us what He will. The Refiner’s fire will make us pure in the end for His needs. In the meantime, stay gold. Stay precious. * * (Founded 1842 in Nauvoo, Illinois, The Relief Society is one of the oldest organizations for women in the world and has approximately 6 million members in over 170 countries and territories.)http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/2014/08/precious-gems-what-we-are-what-we-may.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860.post-3215845210604314450Tue, 15 Apr 2014 04:15:00 +00002015-06-20T18:27:39.158-04:00Full MoonPapa and I walked from the station wagon to his Cousin Barbara's porch. The moon was rising high and fireflies danced and frolicked around us. Summer in North Carolina was humid and thick with the smells of cigarettes, beer and pine trees. <br> <br> Just about everyone had retired into Barbara's house that night after a small family reunion. The relatives were quieting the young ones, singing the babies to sleep. In the distance and through the trees I heard drums and saw a bonfire. Papa casually said, "The Indians are out celebrating, too." <br> <br> My eyes went wide, my heart pounded and despite the warmth still hanging in the misty mugginess, I felt a chill shake my body. "Oh, Papa, will the Indians scalp us? Will they burn down the house around us, right here?" <br> <br> Papa turned, set the suitcases and blankets on the porch and took me in his arms. "Liesa, oh no. They're just having fun like everyone else! Didn't you know, you're my little Indian Princess?" <br> <br> I looked at his eyes. The light from the windows reflected in my father's face and I saw calm and sincerity -- and love. "My dad was mixed-blood Cherokee. I'm part Cherokee. You're part Cherokee and you’re my little Princess." <br> <br> "Really?" I questioned. <br> <br> "Honest to goodness. Where did you get the idea that the neighbors were going to scalp us and burn down Barbara's house?" <br> <br> "From the Cowboy and Indian movies I watch on TV." <br> <br> Papa shook his head and said, "The Indians haven't been on the warpath for about fifty years. Barbara's husband Roy is Cherokee too and you know he's a good, gentle man." <br> <br> Papa took my hand and led me into Barbara's home. The men were seated around the kitchen table, playing cards, drinking Colt 45 Malt Liquor and laughing. The older children were punching holes into the tops of jars filled with fireflies. My heart felt like those jars, filled with bubbling buzzing light. My father put my mind at ease and peace filled my soul. I learned a lesson that night, that we can choose to fear or choose to love, but we must choose to be informed and face life bravely. I took a jar full of those lightning bugs into the dark living room and looked out the window. I saw the full moon--and he was smiling. http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/2014/04/full-moon.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860.post-6224770015611682698Sat, 29 Mar 2014 08:09:00 +00002015-07-03T11:30:03.571-04:00Dog-Gonnit!!!My family had dogs while I was growing up. Additionally, my husband and I had dogs for many years. My dad always trained our dogs to STAY INSIDE the fence line. I trained my dogs as well and they all stayed in the yard. No matter where we lived, if the gate was open, or the snow was piled high in drifts taller than the fences, our dogs stayed put. If we saw a problem, my husband and I would fix the fence, etc. We had collies, Rottweiler's, mutts, German Shepherds, a Dalmatian, terriers etc. Then we got Jodi, a Labrador puppy. She grew into a lovable, huge brown dog. <br> <br> The neighbor's lab taught her how to dig under the fence, so we would find the trouble spots and hammer rebar into the ground. She soon learned how to jump the fence. We put her in an enclosed dog run. She chewed a hole through it in less than twelve hours. We had to let her out sometimes in the yard and she'd promptly jump the fence to find the old lady that cruised the street on her power scooter. Scooter-mamma would yell at us and we'd lock Jodi back up in the reinforced pen. Jodi would howl, dig, chew and escape again. <br> <br> One Thanksgiving she got loose. It was night. We yelled for her and searched. In the darkness we heard, "Whoosh, chuckity, chuck, whoosh chuckity chuck," and of course here comes Jodi with a large garbage bag, a turkey carcass inside. She was so sad when we threw it out and yanked her to the porch. The following Christmas Jodi brought back what I thought was a deflated purple ball. I ran outside and went to get it from her. I found that my dog was gnawing on the end of it, trying to get at the Crown Royal whiskey inside! (How the heck Jodi got this prize is anyone's guess). She still hadn't broken the seal and my brother-in-law said he wished his labs (that were trained to hunt) would bring him whiskey for Christmas. I handed the bottle to him and said, "Merry Christmas, from Jodi, Eh?" <br> <br> We tried walking her on the leash, but she walked us. It didn't matter the leash, collar or method, she wouldn't be reigned in and actually obeyed better off leash. <br> <br> We bought her a super long chain and my dad complained that no dog of his ever got out of the yard and why couldn't we just train her? Lord knows we tried! When we had to let her out on our acre, we put her on that thirty foot line, staked to the ground, but some well-meaning person kept unhooking her because "It just isn't right to chain a dog" and of course, she would jump the chain-link fence and try to play with the lady on the power scooter. This went on and on for years. <br> <br> One hot day a neighbor found Jodi and her buddy Hank swimming in her horse trough and said, "If they'd been chasing the horses and cattle, I'd be well within my rights to shoot those dogs, but they were just swimming. Next time I might shoot them both." My husband and I agreed that if it happened again, we'd hold no hard feelings if it came down to shooting our Jodi. <br> <br> One day, I just got fed up and rehomed her. The people she went to live with had acres and acres of farmland and were delighted at how well behaved and smart Jodi was. I know I made the right decision. I didn't want her to get shot. I also valued my neighbors who were beyond patient in this situation. <br> <br> Anyone who says they will NEVER have a dog that wanders might find that one comes to them in a furry, fun-loving and rebellious package. Its name might not be Jodi, Hank, Rover, Fido or Misha. Her name might be Karma and she will show you how to eat your words. They taste a lot like kibble.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2xSu_WFYgBA/UzZ_cdy_HmI/AAAAAAAAANo/OKrtnfLttH0/s1600/11111.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2xSu_WFYgBA/UzZ_cdy_HmI/AAAAAAAAANo/OKrtnfLttH0/s400/11111.jpg" /></a></div>http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/2014/03/dog-gonnit.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860.post-4459354972694377287Sat, 22 Mar 2014 22:47:00 +00002015-07-03T11:37:53.663-04:00That's the Way I always Heard it should BeThe other day during lunch a co-worker was playing her song-list. We both enjoy early seventies music, so we listened together. The song "That's the Way I always Heard it should Be" by Carly Simon came on. I hadn't heard that tune in over a decade -- at least. Today I decided to download it and did a little research into the melancholy ballad. Then I read some comments. <br> <br> One person declared "This song is so beautiful, but very very very depressing. And true. What's the point, everyone ends up hating each other or getting divorced, right?" I noted the date of the comment was 2007 and I hope things got better in that individual's life. I really do. I know seven years have passed, but I answered: "I love this song, the music and the lyrics; but to answer your question I for one have been married nearly twenty-seven years. Marriage and relationships take hard work and very little selfishness. Sometimes the fire goes out, but you have to keep the coals alive to bring the flame on again. The problem is everyone is looking for the ideal relationship, marriage, career, child, romance etc. If you had a hobby or sport that you were really into, wouldn't you put a great deal of your time and efforts into it? I watch my husband referee games and I don't know very much about basketball. Yes, sometimes I want to fall asleep after a day of teaching and housework or I just read my kindle and glance up sometimes. On the drive home I rub his right thigh. (Because he's driving.) He lets me have my own space and supported me through months of post-partum depression with our first baby. We've committed not to "cut-and-run" in the face of trouble. He is my hobby. . . my project. Not everyone breaks up and hates each other. You might not like each other every day of the week, but when two people work hard at something it's valued. Best wishes to you." <br> <br> I didn't intend to preach. Realistically sometimes a person might find that his or her partner is a real selfish jerk. You might be married to a serial killer or a drug dealer. If that's the case LEAVE THE RELATIONSHIP-- NOW! If you are just saddled with an average individual realize that you, too, may be run of the mill. All of us are special in God's eyes, yes, but we all have our faults. <br> <br> Those of you out there with pets know that fluffy might take a whiz in the corner or JoJo might shed, but does this mean that you're ready to send them to the pound or rehome your fur babies? I hope not. You might just be the Fido in the relationship, yet your spouse doesn't mind that you snap once in awhile. If you love your significant other half as much as you love your pet, or as the above mentioned hobby, give your grievances some time and forgive, forgive forgive. Don't harbor resentment. Just love. That's all there is to it. <br> <br> THAT'S THE WAY IT IS. I bet you never heard that.http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/2014/03/thats-way-i-always-heard-it-should-be.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860.post-4737688524917864584Fri, 14 Mar 2014 18:30:00 +00002014-03-14T14:30:27.448-04:00Today I'm on my Soap-box<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7wnLZhoZaXU/UyNKVj5uOJI/AAAAAAAAANQ/GXbnr840i3k/s1600/12ab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7wnLZhoZaXU/UyNKVj5uOJI/AAAAAAAAANQ/GXbnr840i3k/s320/12ab.jpg" /></a></div> Probably not. My favorite sports heroes were Alydar, Affirmed and Secretariat. I will add to that I don't think any human "heroes" would go in and give their lives either. Nor would they teach children, day in and day out. Yet we pay these "heroes" and actors huge amounts of money and pay teachers, firefighters, servicemen and policemen very little. Celebrities are worshipped and fawned over while police are accused of brutality when they shoot some idiot threatening the lives of citizens, soldiers were at one time spat on, and teachers are bad-mouthed. I sure hope our priorities change because too many people will realize that when the time comes, most celebrities and sports heroes would not only throw the general population under the bus, but would set fire to it, back over them and party on. http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/2014/03/today-im-on-my-soap-box.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860.post-96307221408643675Mon, 17 Feb 2014 00:30:00 +00002015-07-22T14:47:57.500-04:00As time goes by. . .<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-K7ks3KiAazI/UwFXoqwcRZI/AAAAAAAAAM4/gOwGtH_L4qk/s1600/jerry+anderson.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-K7ks3KiAazI/UwFXoqwcRZI/AAAAAAAAAM4/gOwGtH_L4qk/s320/jerry+anderson.jpg" /></a> <br> <br>It doesn't seem so long ago that I was in grade school. My parents were getting old and my grandparents were getting older. Then I went to high school and college. My grandparents were passing from earthly life to Heaven. My parents turned fifty. I got married. I had children. <br> <br> Ten years ago this month my mother died, then my father, then my father-in-law. Today my mother-in-law joined the rest of them. Just a brief ten years and we lost them all! I have a little grand-niece about to be born. I myself am a grandmother. Next month I will be fifty. My husband and I are now the elderly generation. <br> <br> Life goes on. Today I wished for the healthy care-free days of my high school years. Then I realized that if I had my parents back and my grandparents too, I wouldn't have my children and I wouldn’t be a grandmother. <br> <br> I guess that’s what Heaven is for; a place of rest and a grand reunion waits for us. Who would trade that for any earthly pleasure or material thing? <br> <br> Have a wonderful journey, Shirley. Say “Hello” to everyone and save a place for us at the banquet table. <br> <br>(Sculpture by Jerry Anderson)http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/2014/02/as-time-goes-by.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860.post-8955785613859254592Sun, 15 Dec 2013 21:53:00 +00002015-07-22T14:44:29.696-04:00No Room at the Inn<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8_0N4njD9tQ/Uq4n25VJH1I/AAAAAAAAAL8/qxyj4pAa540/s1600/123.png" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8_0N4njD9tQ/Uq4n25VJH1I/AAAAAAAAAL8/qxyj4pAa540/s320/123.png" /></a> Whether you’re a non-Christian, atheist or a believer, by now I’m sure you’ve all heard the story of Mary and Joseph who were in a crowded city; Mary full with child, His birth imminent. There was no room or bed available to them anywhere. One inn keeper led the couple to a stable where under the most humble of circumstances, Mary gave birth to her baby – the Savior of all human kind. <br> <br>Flash forward to 2013. My daughter and her husband were doing everything right. They owned their own, small home. My son-in-law is completing his studies at Brigham Young University. His job is tied to his attendance at the school and after finals this week, his position will be terminated. So the kids decided to move to be closer to family. (Believe me, I was delighted that I’d get to spend more time with my two-year-old grandson.) <br> <br>First, their house didn’t sell. So they looked for rentals and because they have a dog and cat it wasn’t easy. All autumn they searched and finally found a duplex. They figured their verbal agreement was sufficient until they could sign papers when they got to town, just before Christmas. Then right after Thanksgiving, with three weeks until the move, the owner decided she was going to sell her home instead of renting it to them. By this time, the kids already had a renter for their home; a man with a written contract. <br> <br>Suddenly, they were without a home. Some rental managers wanted to take advantage of their desperation and hiked up the price of the rentals. Time and again the “actual” amount of rent was higher than the advertisements, once the agencies found out the date that my son-in-law and daughter wanted to move and the reasoning behind the short notice. <br> <br>My husband was on the phone with my daughter a few days ago. He said that the kids could move in with us. MOVE IN WITH US! Not just themselves, not just the baby, but their dog, cat and furniture. We already have our own cats and furniture. I couldn’t get my mind around it. If I’d only had more time to prepare, not just a week! I could have made the basement a home for them. I could have rearranged furniture, my youngest daughter could have moved upstairs, and darn it, “Now I can’t put the nice heirloom ornaments on the tree!” <br> <br>I was on the phone that night with my little girl, now a grown woman, about to come home. I fussed and fretted until I became hyper-ventilated and seriously doubted my worth as a mother. A one-time tom-boy, my daughter even joked that they’d live in our barn if they could. I wished they would, just so they could have their own space. (The story of Mary and Joseph briefly flashed into my mind.) Then I remembered that there was no electricity to the empty barn; long since vacant of horses, barn cats, chickens, ducks and rabbits. Snow was thick and white upon the ground and below-freezing temperatures held the night creatures hostage. Weathermen were urging people to bring their pets inside. My daughter’s little family needed a home. How could I turn them down? <br> <br>My daughter had already overcome so much. At less than two months of age, suffering from a high fever, she’d had a spinal tap. At twelve years old, she nearly died of salmonella poisoning. At nineteen a five found mucinous cyst was removed from her body and she was told that it would be difficult for her to become pregnant. <br> <br>Then there was her husband. One winter at age nineteen he’d nearly died while hiking on a mountain side. He was afraid that his college roommates had not received his distress call because the battery on his cell phone was dead before he could finish his plea for help. He was found in the twilight, shoeless and suffering delirium from hypothermia. He nearly lost a couple of his toes. Years later, the two met and married and soon after, my daughter found that she was carrying her first child! Again, they faced tragedy and near death when the train we were riding was broadsided by a truck. As we made our way to the emergency room via ambulance and helicopter, we were eventually reunited, and I can tell you, the best sound I ever heard was my grandson’s heartbeat in the trauma unit. He was alive! Two months later, the little fellow was born. <br> <br>So if the Lord in his wisdom had gotten my daughter’s little family this far, I just had to believe that with our help, they’d be spiritually and temporally cared for at some future time, if I just felt the same generous sense of sharing, without question, that my husband has. <br> <br>After an evening of prayer and heartache, turmoil and doubt, I awoke with a clearer perspective. The vintage family ornaments could hang on a wreath this year. Maybe I’d make a permanent decoration with them! The kids wouldn’t have the entire basement to themselves, but we could let them have a room upstairs and store their furniture in the basement. Maybe Christmas wouldn’t be perfect in the sense of materialism, but we’d be together as a family. Maybe I wouldn’t have enough time to make them cozy, but I COULD AT LEAST MAKE THEM FEEL WELCOME. <br> <br>Today, I thought about the inn keeper’s wife. Was she so preoccupied with giving her guests and tenants the perfect tax-time-and-census feast that she just couldn’t take in two more souls, let alone tend to a newborn? Was there maybe a tiny room that had been vacated recently that was still a little unkempt or messy? Perhaps she prided herself on having the loveliest inn of all Bethlehem? <br> <br>What about now? Maybe you could have offered your neighbor a ride to church but thought “My car is a mess and the kids spilled gum drops on the seats. Well, perhaps next week.” Did you spend all weekend making the best gingerbread house ever created, when instead you could have been baby-sitting for the single mother down the block that got called to work overtime during the busy Christmas season? What about the old drunk on the corner. Did you step over him and not meet his eye or did you merely throw ten dollars at his feet and walk away? Maybe you could have given him a blanket and bought him a sandwich and spent lunch-time with him. Christmas should be a season of getting out of our comfort zone. I know I had to. <br> <br>I wonder how the Christmas story would have played out if the inn keeper and his wife had shared their room and spent the night in the stable themselves. I may just do that. I may just move out to the barn. At least I know my kids will be warm and happy. That’s all that really matters to me. <br> <br>Merry Christmas. I love you. <br> <br>(Image via Simon Dewey)http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/2013/12/no-room-at-inn.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860.post-4810903186730724706Sun, 08 Dec 2013 04:57:00 +00002015-07-22T14:35:22.292-04:00Pearl Harbor Day December 7Who here today remembered that it's the anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor? <br> <br>My husband David and I went to a veterans' home to hear the few remaining survivors speak. They were being honored, but it was an honor to be in their presence. A Catholic Priest gave the opening prayer and we saw a multi-media production of Native American Vets, warriors and code-talkers. Paiute dancers did their part, and we heard poems and songs from other servicemen. I got to see two men who were actually at Pearl Harbor during the attack and survived the horrors they saw, of burning ships and bloodied men. Another man honored there was three miles away from the harbor at the time the Japanese Zeros began their raid. He fought valiantly where he was. David saw his old friend Dr. Creed, who spoke about the American airmen that served with the RAF. (American Air-fighters who served in England and returned to the USA when we later became involved in the second World War.) <br> <br>I was dismayed that so many people left before the two hour program had ended. I purposely left my cell home. A few times we could hear the chimes of phones. (Even vets can't miss a call these days, I guess.) <br> <br>David Chung, a Vietnam Vet and former liaison to Washington DC also spoke. His late wife Cheryl was supposed to talk as well. A former nurse, she helped get the war memorial honoring women vets in place in Washington DC. She died September 4 due to complications of Agent Orange. I later introduced myself to Mr. Chung. He told me some stories after the program. Chung left his calling, voluntarily when awkward meetings (dare we say, anti-American gatherings) took place between him and the present administration in Washington. At one of these get-togethers, he was introduced as a liaison and US veteran of Vietnam. Nancy Pelosi asked him when he first came to America. He said he was born here. She asked him when his parents came here. Chung said they were born in Arizona. She asked where he was from and he said Utah. Ms. Pelosi was very put out that she was introduced to an American War Veteran and was hoping that David Chung was Vietnamese. She wanted to apologize for the horrors we put the communist troops through. She stormed off. Chung was basically told that he should have played "his part" because he was not being politically correct. Excuse me? He served our country honorably and Pelosi wants the "little old Asian man" in his place? She should know better, she serves the people of California and the entire USA. <br> <br>We come from many backgrounds and ethnicities. Many vets see the writing on the wall, the end of freedom as we once knew it. They are old. They've fought for our freedom, yet most Americans stay home on Veterans Day and watch football or party all night, forgetting that someone gave their younger years, their time, their freedom and sometimes their own lives, just so some pea-brained politician can apologize to other countries for our perceived short comings. <br> <br>Nancy Pelosi, a man like David Chung and all our vets deserve better. They deserve at the very least an apology from you. We should be shaking their hands and asking for their autographs. <br> <br>Bless our "boys" young and old.http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/2013/12/pearl-harbor-day-december-7.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860.post-4681560891947854687Fri, 08 Nov 2013 02:56:00 +00002015-07-22T14:29:08.887-04:00November, To our Dads, Brothers, Sons and HusbandsNovember is Prostate Cancer Awareness Month. You don’t have to grow whiskers like the Duck Dynasty men to participate. Just pat your brother on the back and encourage him to get screened. <br> <br>I wish my father-in-law had taken action sooner. Instead, he let what could have been a simple matter turn into full –blown systemic cancer that spread even into his eyes. <br> <br>Some people are more fortunate. Bryce Blanch was diagnosed with cancer purely by accident. “I was suffering from heat exhaustion and taken to the hospital,” he said. Several tests were conducted. The physicians and staff concluded that it was indeed heat sickness and possibly an anxiety attack. ”I had a follow-up with my doctor and she decided to order a PSA.” According to the National Cancer Institute, a PSA (Prostate-Specific Antigen) test measures the blood level of an antigen secreted by the epithelial cells of the prostate, a gland found only in men. The higher a man’s PSA level, the more likely it is that he has prostate cancer. At the time, Blanch was 47 years old and in relatively good health. “The PSA came back the next day and it was a 9.8 which is extremely high. I was fast tracked into an urologist where an exam and biopsy were performed.” Eight out of a dozen samples were positive for grade nine aggressive carcinoma. He had more tests to see if it had metastasized, which is an aggressive spreading to other body parts. <br> <br>“I had a colonoscopy, several CT scans, a full body bone scan, ultrasound and then more CT scans. I was lucky it hadn't metastasized. I had surgery and had my prostate removed along with my lymph nodes and the nerves on one side.” The surgeons got all of the cancer by a negative margin of less than half of a millimeter. Blanch went on to say “I have been cancer free for exactly two years now. Had I not had the heat exhaustion I would not have ever known that I had cancer because I wasn't one to go to the doctor. It had been seven years since I had a checkup. I am now an ambassador for all colors of cancer. Every man over fifty needs to get screened. It only takes a couple of minutes but it can save a life. I am living proof. Don’t wait until you get symptoms because by the time you have symptoms it’s too late,” and by that point, the cancer most likely will be found far from its original starting point. Blanch added, “I no longer take life for granted and have taken up running. I run for those who can't. My motto is ‘ASPIRE TO INSPIRE!’ If even one person sees me running a race in my cancer shirt and gets inspired to get well or to get screened it will be worth every mile I have run. I should be dead but because of a simple test I am very much alive.” <br> <br>--Liesa Swejkoski (with Marie Swejkoski, Editor) <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0makcEPZ7Vg/UnxSpCW04WI/AAAAAAAAAK8/6JwW_Am6KqM/s1600/abbadabba.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0makcEPZ7Vg/UnxSpCW04WI/AAAAAAAAAK8/6JwW_Am6KqM/s400/abbadabba.jpg" /></a>http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/2013/11/november-is-prostate-cancer-awareness.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860.post-6487822974492252317Sat, 07 Sep 2013 18:30:00 +00002015-07-22T14:26:40.696-04:00Bring on your 'A' GameYears ago, when I was a substitute teacher, some of the students claimed that grades don’t mean anything in the real world. They settled for just getting by. Although these kids might be right in many ways, they are also missing out on challenging themselves to do better. <br> <br>Like my old Michigan History teacher Mr. Harrison Caswell used to say, “If you want to get better at tennis, you play with a pro, someone who is better than you.” He didn’t play tennis. As a young man, he was on the New York Giants football team. He was also a veteran of World War Two, having seen action in the South Pacific. What he meant was, if you want to be a better player, hang out with people that challenge you. If you want to be a finer person, associate with exceptional individuals. Don’t let mediocre beliefs and people drag you down. If you want to improve, follow the leader that will guide you to the goals you aspire to. (Of course if you are self-confident and ready, you may be the one reaching down to help someone up the ladder of life. You may be the one that people look up to as a mentor and leader.) <br> <br>Now, back to the students: It is true that years from now your employer might not care if you got an ‘A’ in algebra or a ‘C’ grade. Then again, some bosses and college recruiters want to see how hard you worked. The higher your grades, they see that you accepted the challenge to do better. <br> <br>One day, a ten-year-old quoted an older sibling. “Grades don’t mean anything when you’re grown up.” The other students began to nod their heads and murmur. <br> <br>I said, “You’re right. When you’re your own man, it will be in the past. All this classwork will be a memory.” Then I wrote the word PALACE on the board. I asked the kids to read it out loud. They did. “What does it mean?” I asked. <br> <br>“It’s a castle!” said a girl. <br> <br>“Yes, and we all want to live in our own castle when we’re grown up.” <br> <br>Then I erased the first ‘A’ from the word. It now read PLACE. Scanning the room I looked at each of them. “That ‘A’ is the difference between your PALACE and just a place.” I hope they will remember that. <br> <br>Grades are not for the teacher. They are for pupils. Although, just letters, they’re a gauge that helps us to determine where students need to improve. How hard individuals work for that grade and the habits they establish when they're younger help them to form the people they hope to be, where they want to go, what they will become. <br> <br>‘A’ will get you the palace. ‘B’ will get you a building. ‘C’ earns you a condo. ‘D’ you may get a dump but ‘E’ will get you evicted. No matter what the grade on your report card you can always do better next year. It’s up to you. <br> <br>Best wishes and Christ’s blessings to all the returning students. http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/2013/09/years-ago-when-i-was-substitute-teacher.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860.post-6526286732931275132Thu, 20 Jun 2013 20:06:00 +00002015-07-22T14:51:09.675-04:00A Day I will Never Forget <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--UNDjcJ9fl8/UcNgnS_EZrI/AAAAAAAAAIc/uwrPRBCEJwM/s1600/25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--UNDjcJ9fl8/UcNgnS_EZrI/AAAAAAAAAIc/uwrPRBCEJwM/s320/25.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ti7fyB16PeQ/UcNgs0P2wWI/AAAAAAAAAIk/gstEkEMZ_-0/s1600/24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ti7fyB16PeQ/UcNgs0P2wWI/AAAAAAAAAIk/gstEkEMZ_-0/s320/24.jpg" /></a></div> (NOTE: The original version of this story was written July 24, 2011, a month after the accident and has appeared in my blog before. Tuesday marks the third anniversary of this awful collision.)----- <br> <br> The bruises took over a year to heal. I have permanent scars, inside and out. Even today, if I rub my skin the wrong way, putting on lotion or toweling myself off, I feel the deep pain. The nightmares don't haunt me each and every night, like they did at first, but they do visit on occasion. Just last February, I woke up screaming in my husband’s face. Sometimes n my dreams, I'm in a fire and I see things burning. I scream, but there is no sound. There should be a sickening howl of horror, but in my dreams the sounds of my cries are inaudible. <br> <br> A little past one in the morning on Friday, June 24, 2011 my family boarded the Amtrak, California Zephyr in Provo, Utah . We were on the way to my niece, Valerie's, wedding in the Bay Area, and our final destination was Emeryville, California, home of Pixar Studios. I had frequent traveler points that I wanted to use. Since major surgery three weeks before, my doctor said I could travel, but to keep walking to prevent blood clots. My pregnant daughter, Kadi, had to get up frequently, as well. This seemed to be the ideal way to travel under the circumstances. I'd taken my daughters Kadi and Marie on the train cross country when they were middle school age and now I wanted my son-in-law Johnny to see how fun train travel could be. (My husband had to remain home for work that weekend.) <br> <br> The train was three hours behind schedule. When it finally arrived, the four of us walked up the stairs to the upper portion of the train and settled into our seats as quietly as we could, putting our luggage overhead and just behind Kadi's and Johnny's seats. There was a little space or "bulkhead" between the stairs and where they sat. Marie and I sat across the aisle from them, covering ourselves with a quilt I'd labored to make ten tears before. Kadi covered herself and Johnny in blankets, her round, pregnant belly filled with her first child, showing under the material. She was due to have him in August. <br> <br> It was late morning in the Nevada desert. We ate some snacks and went to the observation car. We talked to each other and I met some Amish families there. I was looking forward to taking my family to lunch on the dining car. I pictured us eating a delicious meal just as we were climbing in elevation, entering the Sierra Nevada Mountains. We walked back to our seats. Then, I went to the first floor with a magazine and read it for a little while. <br> <br> About 11:20 am I made my way back up the steps, almost at the top, when there was a boom, then a loud metallic popping noise and an incredible jolt. I was holding onto the railing, but my body was flung back and forth. In a fraction of a second, the side of our train car opened up. I stepped to my seat by the top of the stairs afraid of what I might see. I braced myself on the back of the seat, a dead woman in the aisle at my feet. I saw my family facing forward, looking dazed. People said later, that victims were screaming, but I couldn’t hear anything at first. Maybe my heart was pounding so loud, I don’t know. <br> <br> Suddenly, the engineer applied the train brakes. I was whipped forward but managed to remain standing, holding onto the seat beside me as more metal came at our seats and stopped short. Then a hot, percussive force flew around me and through me. I saw the sky through part of the missing roof just above our heads, "Dear Lord," I said, "Please, keep us safe!" I felt the hot dust and debris fly past my face as the train began to slow, screeching against the metal rails. <br> <br> When we stopped, I could still hear the sound, but quickly realized it was the voices of passengers crying and moaning. When the train was completely still, I grabbed Marie's arm. She was to my left, near the side of impact and it wasn't even a half dozen feet in front of her where a gaping hole was ripped into the side of our train car. I tugged. Marie was pinned. She extricated herself and I told her to go out the exit below. Another twelve inches and she would have been pinned so tightly, perhaps she couldn't have gotten out. Maybe she would have lost her legs. I turned to my right. Kadi was screaming, "Where's Marie? Johnny? Johnny?!" I looked at my daughter and son-in- law. There was a large strip of metal over their heads, maybe five feet long and six inches in width. It was twisted and arched over their heads. Another six inches lower, they would have been decapitated. Kadi's head was covered in blood. Her face and neck were covered with the yellow, bubbly, fatty tissue from under someone's skin. I could soon tell that this was not from my daughter. I said, "Honey, we need to get out. Please, don't look at anybody or anything. Just get out, now!" She had to crawl over the seat before her, where a corpse remained partially upright. She crawled over the dead woman, then back towards me, stepping over another body in the aisle. This victim had red-blonde hair and was facedown. My next thought was Johnny. He seemed dazed. His nose was bleeding terribly. I couldn't see any teeth for all the blood in his mouth. He stepped into the aisle. <br> <br> I saw a baby seat on top of the metal that had nearly ended their lives. There was no baby in it. Baby! My mind went back to my daughter's unborn child, then flashed back to the present. On the other side of the stairs behind us, an Asian woman looked at me, pleading, holding another woman on the floor. I said, "I'm sorry, I have to help my family!" <br> <br> I walked my girls down the steps and out to the field, through the brush and sharp weeds. I found a little green vegetation and told them to sit. I could see fire from the train car in front of ours. Where was Johnny? I walked through the bushes and tumbleweeds, back to the train in search of my son-in-law. Again, I boarded the train. Before I got back on, Johnny had taken the pulse of the Asian woman in front of Kadi's seat. He said she stared blankly into space. She was dead. When I got back on he was helping another woman, who'd been wearing shorts. Johnny took off his shirt and was pressing it against the wounds on the woman's legs as a man held her. The skin was peeled back from her shins. I said, "Johnny, Kadi is going to need you." He wanted to help the countless wounded, but left reluctantly, no shirt, no shoes, into the hot desert. <br> <br> Black smoke was entering our train car. I grabbed my mini-cooler. There was ice in there. I wanted to apply it to Johnny's and Kadi's injuries. An elderly black woman was crying, "I can't walk, I can't move!" The smoke was getting thick. I said, "Honey, you're going to have to get out of here. I don't care if you scoot off the train, you're getting out, NOW!" I took her elbow. She was wild-eyed with fear. I walked her down the steps. As soon as I saw that she was safely away from the train, I reached for the ice in my cooler. Looking down at my hands I saw the only piece of our luggage I'd grabbed. No material thing was more important than my family, so leaving the rest of my stuff wasn't a problem. However, I didn't see my cooler: there in my grasp, I saw my purse. I hadn't snatched my mini-cooler after all! I needed that ice! What could I do? There was blood on Johnny's face and on Kadi's scalp. I needed to stop their swelling and tend to their injuries. <br> <br> Then I realized something vital: I had a cell phone. Making my way out to the field, scraping my legs along the branches again, I called David. "Someone bombed our train!" I told him. "The four of us are alive; we'll be okay. I'll call you and tell you more later." I finished by telling him I loved him and not to worry. Then I called my sister, Margie, telling her the same thing, adding that if we made it to the wedding, we'd be late and not to tell the bride anything other than we were having trouble in our travels. As I spoke, the wind shifted. I guided Kadi and Marie and someone that had joined them, a young teen named Marissa Knox, away from the smoke. I walked back to the train. I knew people were hurt, but I wanted rescuers to be aware that I had a pregnant daughter in the field. I saw Johnny sitting by the train, looking shell-shocked, and told him to go out to Kadi. At some point he made it out there. <br> <br> I found a conductor. Another Amtrak employee handed him a white rag. The first man had a phone or walkie-talkie. He tried to dial out. It was then that I realized he was missing fingers and blood quickly soaked the cloth. I said, "My daughter is seven months pregnant. Could you help us, please?" I later found out that upon impact, this man had been flung out of the train. He regained consciousness in the sand, several yards from the track. His co-worker, Laurette Lee, was found crushed under a door. Another conductor brought out ice and water bottles. People from along the highway came to our aid. I took two large chunks of ice and some water bottles for my family. I told Johnny to put the ice up to the front of his face and I held some over Kadi's head, telling her to hold it on her wound. Marissa was frantic, crying that her grandma and auntie were dead. She was certain. I told her not to worry, they were probably alive and on the other side of the train, or walking around looking for her. The smoke shifted and we moved again. It was getting harder to find some soft place to sit. A young man named Julian took the sandals from his own feet and gave them to Johnny. <br> <br> I gathered our little group together and we prayed that help would come soon, that the injured would be healed and that the Lord would gather the dead quickly into His loving arms. A woman came over from several cars away to comfort Marissa and pray with her. Hundreds of passengers were slowly making their way a half mile or so to the highway. The critically injured remained along the tracks or in the field. A white pick-up truck drove toward us, carrying firefighters. They'd arrived on the roadway, having been on a call to a nearby brush fire. Two ladies driving in the desert offered their truck for the rescue efforts since the fire trucks were too heavy for the soft sand. The firefighters strapped Kadi onto a stretcher and began to pile wounded into the pick-up, Kadi and Johnny in the bed, Marie and I in the back seat. Many others were put in with us and driven to the road. <br> <br> At a point, the highway, which ran parallel with the tracks most of the way, intersected with the rails. There, at the intersection, were the mangled remains of a truck, strewn in pieces. It wasn't a bomb! A truck had broadsided our train! My mind began to think. A truck - shouldn't we have derailed, buckled like an accordion at the least? Two miracles! Many more people could have died. The seats in front of ours on the train - they were wiped out. The metal had stopped just in front of and over my family. There was nothing, NOTHING to stop it. Yet it stopped! A body landed before my feet. It could have struck me but didn't. My family and I could have died - another miracle. We stepped out of the pick-up truck. I turned to the tracks. Our train car and the one in front of ours were fully engulfed in fire, black smoke rising in the air and surrounding the metal framework, some bodies still trapped inside. Yet the field didn't catch aflame, despite the heat and the sparks. That would have finished off the survivors and rescuers; yet another miracle. <br> <br> The rescuers! They were arriving: more firefighters, helicopters, ambulances, passersby with water, food and blankets. Someone had given our little group a small white blanket, and it was just the right size for us to shade Kadi and a Korean woman with a severe head injury. This lady was also on a stretcher. Marie and I held the blanket over our two most wounded travelers. I patted Johnny's shoulder. Kadi was crying and said she felt sick. A firefighter agreed with me that we should tilt Kadi a little to the side in case she vomited. I put her at a gentle angle. Moments later, Kadi and Johnny were put on separate ambulances. I didn't know where they were going, but I said somehow we'd be back in contact that evening. I didn't know how we'd manage, but I had to say something. <br> <br> After they were squared away, I felt it. My abdomen was expanding. It felt like a tight water balloon. I mentioned it to a trooper and suddenly I was put on an ambulance. A man claiming to be a Navy doctor came in, poking and prodding my belly, asking me if I felt any pain. First of all I figured I must have hit my head harder than I originally thought. I was puzzled. "Navy? What?" and found out there was a navy base IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DESERT. Who would have thought? The exam continued. I said, "I'm still numb from my hysterectomy!" He poked again and that one hurt! He said something about rigidity and put me on a Seahawk, the Navy version of a Blackhawk helicopter. Despite my objections about the helicopter ride, I was strapped in. I wouldn't let Marie out of my sight and begged them to let her come along. They put a helmet and goggles on her and we flew through the skies to Renown Hospital in Reno, Nevada. Every time we hit turbulence I thought we were all going to die. Now I was hurting and frightened. <br> <br> Not too long afterward, we landed and the sun was in my eyes again, the heat scorching my face. Soon I was looking up at lights and felt air conditioning. We were in the hospital triage in the emergency room. I heard a baby's heartbeat over a monitor. The emergency room staff cut my shirt from my body. Some personnel spoke to each other and before I was taken to have a scan, one of them said that the sound was the heartbeat of my grandson. He was alive! The scans showed that I hadn’t torn my spleen and wasn’t bleeding internally. The images did indicate however, that I was badly bruised inside my abdomen. Yet I was in one piece and thankful! <br> <br> Later that evening, alone, my imagination played cruel tricks on me. I thought that maybe I was just telling myself that my family was alive. Maybe they'd perished and my mind was just trying to comfort me. As soon as the neck brace came off, I was up, searching for my kids. I found Marie. They'd X-rayed her lungs and one knee. She still had black soot around her nostrils. I looked down at my hands. My nails were black with oil and ash. There was blood splattered on my pants, blood on my shoes. Marie and I were released and put up in the Renown Hotel, under the same roof as the hospital. Later that evening we visited Kadi. She had to be under 24 hour monitoring in the obstetrics ward. Johnny was staying with her, crutches by his bedside. His leg was badly damaged, but the bones were not broken, neither was his nose. The blood had been cleaned from his face. He still had his front teeth, but they'd been pushed back on impact which is why I couldn't see them behind the congealing blood. The emergency room doctor moved them back into place. It also turns out that his cheekbone was cracked. <br> <br> That night, as Kadi and Johnny slept in the hospital room, Marie and I took our showers at the hotel, washing the grime and blood from our bodies. As Marie walked out of the shower, clothed in a T-shirt provided by the hospital, I saw her legs for the first time since the accident. My youngest child's limbs were so purple, they were nearly black, with deep bruises, her knees swollen and misshapen. There was very little white skin. I was horrified, but tried to keep my shock inside. I was grateful that Marie had worn jeans on the trip. The people wearing shorts had deep cuts to their shins and knees, like the woman that Johnny tried to aid when he placed his shirt over her damaged legs. Those jeans had saved my baby's legs. <br> <br> The next couple days were spent talking to the National Transportation Safety Board and Amtrak. The employees at the hospital were so compassionate and good to us. The local people of Reno, so kind. I was able to reach some members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, who came to our aid, taking Marie and me to Walmarts for essentials, providing blessings as they laid their hands upon our heads, calling down the powers of God to comfort and heal us.(The dentist says Johnny might still lose some of his teeth, but we will faithfully believe the blessings’ words and hope for the best.) <br> <br> There were so many wonderful people that I would have liked to have met under better circumstances. These were fellow passengers and other people who came to our aid. There were some who sadly didn't survive. Six people died in the train wreck. Laurette Lee, a well-liked conductor, age 68 was one of them; she'd been crushed as the engine of the rock hauler plowed into the train car in front of us. As the trailer struck our car, Marissa's auntie and grandmother also perished: Karly Anne Knox, age 18, and Francis Knox age 58. They died on impact, their bodies flung to the center of the train toward the aisle. Thirty-four year old Cheuy Ong died in front of Kadi. The woman had to be identified by DNA and dental records. The name of the last body is still unknown. Perhaps this person was going to surprise someone somewhere down the line. Maybe no one knows this passenger was coming out to see them. Maybe the friends this person said farewell to assume a choice was made to remain with the loved ones. I can only guess. <br> <br> So far I can only speculate what ultimately caused Lawrence Valli to drive a semi owned by John Davis Trucking of Battle Mountain, Nevada, into an Amtrak train. Was it a medical condition? His coworkers had stopped their trucks and watched in disbelief as Valli's big rig kept going through the crossing gates despite the warning lights. Was it family problems? He left behind a little girl. Was it substance abuse? How can anyone be certain? His body, burned beyond recognition, was found inside the cab of his truck which was still imbedded into the employee dorm car, the one in front of ours. Was he distracted? Was he texting? Officials found his cell phone, a melted cinder beside his remains. They are looking into the possibility that he was using this device moments before impact. The NTSB says it might take up to a year before they complete their report. <br> <br> In the meantime, we the passengers of the doomed California Zephyr, which was journeying between Chicago and Emeryville, California live with the pain, the nightmares and the grief. Our loved ones mourn and suffer with us. We know life will never be the same. Some become bitter, some have moved on with their lives. Others like me are trying to make sense of this. <br> <br> I often wonder why my family and I were spared, for what purpose. We are no better or any more or less loved by our Heavenly Father. Had we died, too, we would be in a better place, but my husband David would have been a lone man, no wife, no daughters, no son-in-law, never to have met our grandson, James. This was a miracle, a whole series of miracles, from the firefighters traveling to the scene of a nearby brush fire, the local rescuers having just had a special training session for large-scale disasters in May. It was divine grace that kept us on the tracks; the Lord helped the engineer, who put on the emergency brakes, keep the California Zephyr on the rails. If we'd toppled, there would have been more dead and wounded. Additionally, the Zephyr's individual cars did not fold, one on top of the other. There was no subsequent fire. By all rights, there should have been. Everything was as dry as a tinderbox along the tracks. Last of all, as I was walking back to my seat, I witnessed the bodies and metal stop as if an unseen force were there. The side of the train, or perhaps the side of the rock hauler, made a "tent" around Kadi's and Johnny's upper bodies. That was, to me personally, the greatest miracle of all. It defied the law of physics. When something is in motion, it remains in motion until another force stops it or slows it. There was nothing to block these objects from coming at us. Yet, the force of heat kept going through me and around me. Witnesses behind us said it was a fireball. People as far back as the observation car said moments after the jolt, flames licked the train on both sides and vanished. I'm still trying to wrap my head around all of this. My bruises, though fading, hurt. My arms and wrists have pain, I want to cry and cry, but I'm just unable to. My belly is numb. My doctor says I will take even longer to heal from my surgery. At night, my dreams are filled with trains, tracks, fire and screaming. Yet through it all, I thank the Lord that he spared us and will tell anyone at any time, that miracles still happen. If these divine events happened all the time they wouldn't be miracles, they'd be a common occurrence. But this, my friends, defied the laws of Nature and physics, and who better to defy them than the Celestial God who wrote those laws. I just hope He doesn't wait too long to tell us why we were spared. I want to know what my purpose is. I want to get going with whatever task He has for me to do, and when I do it, watch and listen and maybe you can join me in doing something good. <br> <br> UPDATE: Barbara Bell, age 60 of the United Kingdom, was identified recently by dental records and DNA as the last victim in the train wreck. Update: Robert Breen, a Good Samaritan who had witnessed the accident, later died of complications due to injuries sustained during the rescue effort. He is considered by some to be the seventh, unofficial fatality. Update: John James Spelta, my grandson, was born exactly two months after the accident on August 24, 2011. He is just perfect and so precious! His mom is doing well and his daddy is so proud! Update: As of January 2012, I still have mini anxiety moments when I'm too far from members of my family or if I get too close to a "side-dumper" semi in traffic. I just take deep breaths and pray real hard during those instances. Update: December 2012-January 2013--The NTSB released its report. The driver was said to have been fatigued in the days leading up to the collision. He was reportedly using his cell phone while driving before the accident. Additionally, his employer, John Davis Trucking had bypassed safety features on the truck he was operating as well as several others in the fleet. <br> <br>(Photo of Johnny Spelta in the ambulance courtesy of passenger Jean Marie.)http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/2013/06/a-day-i-will-never-forget.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860.post-6521483928260609358Sat, 15 Jun 2013 21:02:00 +00002015-07-22T14:17:56.746-04:00Too late to say "I'm Sorry".I'll admit, my dad and I didn't see eye-to-eye on too many things, but I learned a lot from him. <br> <br>I learned about honesty. I remember the day he found a long lost buddy from the Navy. He'd spent more than twenty years searching for this individual, just to pay him back twenty dollars. His friend had long since forgotten, but my dad didn't. That was the kind of man he was. <br> <br>I learned about hard work and loyalty. He put in long shifts on the assembly line at the Fisher-body Fleetwood, General Motors Factory in Delray (a part of Detroit). Despite that fact, he always had time for me. I remember so many things we did together! He took me to Elizabeth Park and sat beside me on the pony and cart rides. Also, there were weekends he would take me to a movie. Many times, he'd be passed out from exhaustion in the seat next to me, but he was there. He took time to play with me, teach me about nature, plants and animals and consoled me when I cried. I was his little girl and he was my protector. <br> <br>Then I grew up. I had different opinions on religion, race relations and career choices. No matter what I chose to do, it just wasn't good enough for his little girl. By this time I was in my twenties. I thought about being a teacher and he wasn’t too keen on that. When I wanted to be a nurse, he wanted me to be a doctor. When I wanted to be a vet tech, he wanted me to be a veterinarian. When I told him I wanted to be a writer, he said to get a real career, like banking. When I had boyfriends, he wanted me to find a REAL MAN (but much later, of course, like in my thirties). <br> <br>From his example, I learned that flying off the handle and name calling were rude and did nothing for our relationship. I learned that I needed to watch what I ate and drank, and to eat frequent healthy snacks, because not everything he consumed agreed with him. If he skipped a meal, he would become cranky. When he drank beer like our German neighbors did, he would get a killer headache all weekend. (It didn't agree with his Cherokee chemistry.) I learned that addiction could kill. His chain-smoking led to an aggressive lung cancer that took him way, too fast. <br> <br>I learned that saying “I'm sorry,” and forgiving should never be put off. I hope that's a lesson my oldest daughter will learn before it's too late. <br> <br>I love you Kadi. I'm sorry. Forgive me.http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/2013/06/too-late-to-say-im-sorry.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-440800713127524860.post-1163477816677979240Fri, 31 May 2013 21:57:00 +00002015-07-22T14:14:48.690-04:00Steps to Becoming a WriterI've had people tell me they'd like to write. Well, then, WRITE! Get it all down while you're in the mood. That’s part of a process called “brainstorming”. <br> <br>I'd suggest you buy cheap spiral notebooks and carry little ones with you. Write your ideas down when inspiration strikes you, right then and there. (If you're driving, wait until you're parked, please.) I say this because not everyone carries their laptop EVERYWHERE. Inspiration could hit you in church or at a funeral, etc. and some people frown upon technology during solemn occasions. <br> <br>Later, put the events into a timeline. Expect your story to be written and rewritten several times. Your first draft is just ideas from your brain and feelings from your heart. It won't be perfect and it won't be anything like the final product. Then if you're a good typist, go for it, or hire a college student to do the typing for you. It's worth it to hire a typist if you’re like me. I'm terrible at the keyboard. I take a long, long time to type and I have a little dyslexia. (Somewhere, my high school typing teacher Mrs. Theodore is still suffering from a nervous condition caused by my inability to properly use the keys. Lord knows the poor lady tried.) <br> <br>Then what? Where do you go to refine your story? A writing course would be the next step. I hope you get a good, enthusiastic teacher, one who encourages your creativity over the technical process. I'm not technical. I do know some basics, but that's what my daughter, proofreader and editor are for. <br> <br>Also, if your community has a writers’ guild, you should join. A good writers’ group will help you and each member by making suggestions. Everyone has a story and only helpful criticism will build up a writer's confidence and creativity. The groups that aren't good are the ones that get a couple "divas" who monopolize the meetings and run your work down. It becomes all about them, a showcase for their poetry and short stories. I've heard about these meetings and I'm happy to tell you, I haven't encountered people like that in any of the writers' groups I've participated in. <br> <br>When you are satisfied with what you've created, find an editor. They sometimes charge by the page or by the hour, but a good one is worth it. At the very least, if you live near a university, hire a student or teacher's assistant. They need the money and have fresh ideas. They also know the rules of the English language. <br> <br>Last of all, save your work on at least TWO devices. Keep a thumb-drive in a “firebox” in an envelope with a label on it. I learned this the hard way because my manuscript for the Kindle edition of "Lizzie's Blue Ridge Memories" was on my Dell notebook. It was burned to a crisp on June 24, 2011 when I was involved in a train wreck. People died in front of my family, so losing my little lap-top is insignificant, but I gained valuable knowledge from that experience. I’m grateful that my daughter was able to re-format the entire book for me. Now, I keep my work on a hard drive and copies on paper as well as stored in a secure thumb drive. <br> <br>Best of luck and blessings to you! http://asideshowjourney.blogspot.com/2013/05/ive-had-people-tell-me-theyd-like-to.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Liesa Swejkoski)0